


Dog Days

by viatorix



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viatorix/pseuds/viatorix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cullen thinks he has finally moved on from the past, his hopes are destroyed before they even have a chance to flourish. On a whim, and against his better judgement, he seeks out Samson in his cell to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme. The rating is probably subject to change.

Sometimes, just before curfew, when most of the other mages had retired to their rooms and only staunch Templars stalked the Tower’s halls, Cullen would catch Amell in the library. Always secluded in a space hidden by rows upon rows of tall bookshelves, in a cubby created by their haphazard placement. If you weren’t looking for her, you’d never see her. She kept her candle flame low, ready to snuff out, so she could easily duck and avoid a knight, should the heavy clank of his armour alert her of his presence. Cullen was careful. When he approached the library’s heavy wooden door, his steps were always light, just in case she was in there. The well-oiled metal plates glided over one another, the only noise being a series of almost soundless clicks. As Cullen passed the threshold of the door, he would look for the flicker of her candle. Most times he would continue on his patrol, taking a small wisp of comfort that he knew where she was. Though that in itself was ridiculous. What trouble could she get into other than a strong word from another knight if she was caught? Perhaps the more likely answer was that Cullen knew her secret, and even if she didn’t know that he knew, he would keep it safe anyway. An invisible bond. Occasionally though, instead of advancing on, he would linger. With soft steps he would creep forward, and peek between a nook of dusty tomes to watch her. Just for a minute or two, and just to see that she was alright. At least that was what he told himself.

She was always writing something; scribbling with a heavy hand. Her large, looping script stuttered when she flicked to the next page, and glanced up to check her surroundings, pausing occasionally to listen. Cullen didn’t think, or want to think, Amell was the sort for procrastination. No, he was positive she was a diligent student – always working (sometimes overworking) on one assignment or another, always busy with the tasks Uldred assigned her. Amell was his favourite, and with good reason too, although Cullen had never liked the man. She should potential for magic to which none of the other apprentices could even compare.

He thought about approaching her a time or two when she was alone there, because as far as Cullen knew, it was the only time she was alone at all. Amell was a lake bird, and the Tower her water, with how easily she moved through the mages, sashaying through circles of both fellow apprentice and enchanter. She never stayed with one for long though, the only constant companion she allowed was Jowan, though Cullen could never quite understand why. He was the shadow of her flight, a meager imitation of something palpable. With Amell’s constant motion and the nature of what he was, Cullen could never get close, even if he wanted to. The waves buffeted him back to the side-lines, creating a spectator out of him. Here though, the water was still, and shallow enough that he could approach without danger. If only his heart didn’t thunder in his throat. If only his palms didn’t sweat and his voice twist into knots when she looked at him. Cullen rebuffed himself more than Amell ever did.

So, Cullen had watched her instead. Watching was safe. Watching wasn’t harrowed with potential rejection. If some of the other mages grew churlish because of his stares, then that was fine – all they could do was talk.

And then the Warden came, and everything went to shit.

Cullen still thinks about the things he said to her when she saved him that day in the Tower. Maker, do those words eat at his gut. He should have been grateful, he should have thanked her. Instead, Cullen had spat at her feet. Ground his heel into whatever semblance of a relationship they had, real or imagined. The memory of the flash of hurt that flickered across Amell’s face before it settled into polite blankness, still made his stomach churn. She had turned, left him at the bottom of the stairs to defeat her master, King Alistair, Leliana, and the Qunari man in tow. That was the last time Cullen saw her. He never got to say the words that stuck in his throat.

A part of him whispered that it didn’t matter now. Solona Amell was dead and gone, laid beside the other great Warden heroes in a magnificent tomb at Weisshaupt, far to the west.

One day, before the Inquisition had even formed, when the dreams became sour, and his teeth felt like rubber in his mouth, Cullen had approached Leliana. She had travelled with Amell, after all, and if the rumours were true, they had even been lovers. Cullen didn’t want to think about that part, lest a beast, monstrous and green, rattle the bars of its prison. No, he had just wanted memories. Tidbits. The way she had laughed, the adventures she had sort. The kinds of things she kept hidden from the Circle out of acknowledgment of what could never be. That was the day Cullen learned that Sister Nightingale was a creature to be feared.

She didn’t answer when he had said the words, she didn’t need to. The woman became ice on a spider web. Cullen had taken a step back, his next sentence quickly dying in his mouth at her glare. Leliana’s face had blackened, the shadows that lined her jaw deepening out of sheer force of will. Cullen had apologized profusely for his mistake, voice laced with shame. His audacity had caused him to horrendously step out of line. Whatever Cullen had thought he’d lost, Leliana lost a thousand fold more. That much was clear to him, though it did nothing erase the pain he felt.

That day felt like years ago now.

“Josephine, I need you to send out diplomatic invitations to the nobles in Nevarra.  We need to get them interested in our cause.” The ambassador gave a polite nod at the Inquisitor’s request, jotting down a few notes on her tablet. The Inquisitor herself was studying the little pins scattered across the map, arms spread and braced lowly against the wood of the giant tree-trunk war table. Her gaze was hard, utterly steady, and when she glanced up to Cullen, he automatically fell into a soldier’s stance; such was the power of her stare.

“Commander,” her voice was like sandpaper on stone, rough and rich. It had a thickness to it that lent well to her Marcher heritage. “What news of our forces in the Western Approach. How do they fair?”

“They do well, your Grace.” He traced the route his soldiers had taken through the canyons. It had been dangerous, the shifting sands made the path to Griffon Wing Keep unpredictable at times, but they had taken the fortress with minimal casualties. Now they simply had to hold it, something Cullen had feared would be difficult with both the Venatori and Darkspawn bands still in the area, but the Venatori had backed off further into the desert with the capture of Servis and the Darkspawn had been more interested in the tunnels beneath. “Knight-Captain Rylen and his soldiers have become well entrenched in the Keep. With our other camps around the Approach, they should be well supplied.”

The Inquisitor nodded, satisfied with his report, and immediately turned to converse with their Spymaster. She was a stern, strong-jawed woman, with very little patience for dillydallying. Though it made her a poor noble, her straight-forwardness was something Cullen admired. Trevelyan was a strong leader, and although her grit could make those who did not know her wary, she was not unkind. She took care of her own. It was easy to see why so many of her men looked up to her, Cullen included.

The Ex-Templar traced the cord of muscle in her forearm that had been revealed by her hastily rolled up sleeves, and he suddenly felt as if he was nineteen again. Although the woman in front of him was not Amell, didn’t look or act anything like her, he still felt his palms begin to dampen through the tight leather of his gloves, just as they did all those years ago. Yes, Cullen admired her for her fierceness, and her courage, but since the siege of Haven, he had also began to admire her in… other ways. There was no denying Trevelyan was attractive, and her personality only bolstered her more earthly qualities.

His feelings had grown over the successive months, and astoundingly, when he had prodded (carefully, never too forward), Trevelyan had not recoiled. She had even thrown some jabs of her own. There was _potential_ there, and after so many years of duty and scarring loss, it felt like the air had become a little less heavy.

He thought about the words they had exchanged as he passed through the winding halls back to his quarters. The Inquisitor adjourned their meeting after her words with Leliana, citing she needed to prepare for her journey to the Emerald Graves, and with a rap of her knuckles on the ancient table, she had dismissed them. Trevelyan would be gone for a while. A month at most, two weeks at minimum. As Cullen opened the creaking hatchway onto the sunlit crossing that linked the spire to his watch tower quarters, he made a decision. He would tell Trevelyan how he felt about her, lest he stew on his feelings for another month.

Cullen was no longer a boy, he had been a man grown for many years, and that nervousness and the stammer that came with it had all but died down. Okay, so he’d admit sometimes the feeling still hooked onto his skin and gnawed like a parasite he couldn’t quite shake. Nevertheless, he could overcome the knotting of his tongue and his brain no longer felt like it charged straight into a wall whenever the object of his affection so much as looked at him. No, he would tell her tonight, and if the Maker was on his side, then he could finally kick away the past that insisted on hanging on to his coattails.

Cullen hummed, unable to stop the anticipation that blipped in his chest. With a click, he closed the door to his office and leaned heavily against it. The sunlight that streamed in through the slotted window and the broken bricks, had made the room delightfully warm, and illuminated the dust that lazily wafted in and out of the beams. When Cullen breathed, it was with a great deal of peace, and a whisper of wistfulness. There was solace to be found in the quiet here, and he would make use of it before the sun dipped low behind the mountains.

The Commander made his way over to his sturdy desk, stacked with various books and reports, some of which had their folders open, and the papers strewn about the surface. He still had a myriad of work to do in the hours before the dinner bell sounded. Picking up the closest sheet, he studied it. A request for supplies. The next one was a scout report from Emprise du Lion, detailing the retreat of the Red Templars from the caves to the north. One after the other, Cullen seated himself to sort and order them; the scratch of his quill and the turn of paper were the only sounds he made. The methodology of report writing had always been a comfort, and so easy to lose himself in.

A thunderous _clang_ jolted Cullen from his deep concentration, causing him to jerk his quill, and send a line of ink through the meticulously written paragraphs of Rylen’s request form. Cullen growled lowly, cursing under his breath as he looked up. The light was almost completely gone, and the hours with it. The lantern that sat on his desk flickered in the draft, though he didn’t remember lighting it. He had been prone to automatic actions of late, often when the lyrium headaches squeezed like a vice, chasing the rational part of his mind away and leaving the shell to remain, a poor imitation of Tranquillity.  

Cullen threw his quill to the side, disgusted. That was as good excuse as any to stop for the evening. He corked the ink well and shuffled the dusted reports together, mindless to how they mixed and would later have to be re-sorted. Irritatingly, his hands had taken to lightly shaking as he attached his fur mantle to their clasps. Its fine, everything was going to be fine. Cullen was simply going to the Great Hall, where he would eat his meal in peace. Only after, when bellies were full and drink was passed around would he approach the Inquisitor and ask for a moment alone. Nothing more to it.

The evening air was brisk as Cullen stepped onto the bridgeway. A few people milled around in the training ground below, but most of the soldiers had retreated to the barracks, or alternatively, the tavern to start the night early. A few stars sparked above, and Cullen paused, taking a moment to admire the pink champagne sky. The border of the Frostbacks made the sight look as if it could have been a painting in some old Lord’s parlour; resting above a mantle and framed in gold. _Look at Thedas’ beauty_ , the admirers would say, _oh, how I would like to travel to those peaks one day_. _More tea, my dear_? Cullen snorted, looking down to the stables on the other side.

The sight made his stomach drop.

Even from his height, he could see the Inquisitor, stripped of her armour, instead dressed in her casual clothing, leaning against the opening of the stables. Her hair was loose and curled around her shoulders, and her hand was tucked in the belt of the man that was pressed close against her. Blackwall was kissing her. His arm was looped around her waist, arching Trevelyan toward him so he could deepen the passionate kiss, and Cullen couldn’t look away. His fingers were cold and his heart had seceded to his toes, hammering no less than it would have been had it stayed where it belonged.

He felt like a complete and utter fool.

The great bell chimed a second time in reminder, drawing in the higher ranks like flies. Cullen did not follow them.


	2. Chapter 2

When asked why he had drunkenly stumbled through the door of Skyhold’s prison, and down the winding steps to the cells below, Cullen would probably say that it seemed like a good idea at the time. The true reason would be a mystery, even to him, but his alcohol addled brain was convinced that it had been the right thing to do. Cullen hadn’t had enough rational thought left within him to argue with that logic.

At the sight of the Inquisitor and her Warden lover, he had done a bitter face-heel turn, and retreated back through his office and along the western ramparts to the stairs that coincidently ended right outside Skyhold’s tavern. It hadn’t been his original intention, but as he had seen the lights flickering and the muffled rumble of laughter from within, Cullen couldn’t think of a better time to get well and truly pissed.

The sky was ink by the time he had staggered from the stifling warmth of the pub across the frozen mud of the training ground. The drink was a heady warmth in Cullen’s belly, protecting him from the chill of the night air. Upon his arrival, The Iron Bull and his Chargers had quickly welcomed him to their table and wouldn’t let the Commander leave until he had downed no less the six pints of the fine dwarven ale that the barman served. It had been a long time since Cullen had drunk that well, and the alcohol affected him far more than he cared to admit. Therefore, he didn’t think he could be blamed for his decision to wander towards the barred iron door set amongst the vines in the ancient brick.

The Gaoler had immediately stood upon his arrival, giving him a short, sharp salute that trailed off at the end as the guard quickly came to realise her Commander’s intoxicated state.

“Keys. Now, if you would, please,” Cullen ground out attempting to keep his voice even and thrusting a hand towards her.  The Gaoler was hesitant, and only when Cullen growled did she hastily pass him her ring of keys with a jump. He waved a hand at her and said something that might have been either a dismissal or gratitude, he couldn’t tell. Nevertheless, it had the same effect of removing her from his presence to scamper up the stairwell behind him, leaving Cullen to pace unsteadily to the door that lead to the outer cells and his destination.

With a few tries and a few more loud curses, the door swung back with a whine, blasting Cullen’s face with a rush of icy wind. The waterfall thundered below and the stalagmites grew in thick chunks along the open wall, twisting into the broken cells like some great frozen beast that guarded Skyhold’s enemies in its slumber. A simple railing at had been set up, and Cullen gripped it, using it as support as he made his way to where the stonework had shattered and tumbled off into oblivion. The Inquisitor had probably stuck her prisoner here as a form of intimidation. If one hadn’t been assured by a mason that they had supported the stone underneath, then one could rightly think that the end cell could just break apart and fall into the seemingly bottomless ravine below at any time.  Cullen had a hard time thinking that such a threat would or could intimidate the cell’s sole inhabitant. The man cared far too little about anything for it to affect him.

The Ex-Templar hovered at the grated door, trying to subtly peek at the man inside. Samson was seated against the back wall, head back and eyes closed. The only giveaway that he was awake was the soft, rhythmic flexing of the hand supported by his propped up knee. The nostrils of his long nose flared occasionally and his lips twitched, not unlike a wounded dog trying to calm itself.

This was the first time Cullen had seen Samson since he had been present for the Inquisitor’s judgment of the Red Templar General. When Trevelyan had sentenced the man to spend the rest of his life in a hole, Cullen had been all too happy to forget about Samson’s existence. He could think of no better punishment for the man who had betrayed their Order and lead them down the path of destruction and ruin. The blood on Samson’s hands was insurmountable. How far would he have gone, if the Inquisition had not stopped him? How many more lives would have been destroyed? The Samson before him was but a shadow of the man he had roomed with in Kirkwall. It seemed an insult that they even shared the same name.

“Are you going to open your mouth, or are you just going to keep standing there like an invalid?”

Samson’s gritty rasp cut through Cullen’s thoughts and thrust him back into the present. His eyes were still closed, though one of his thin eyebrows was raised in what Cullen assumed was irritation.

“Hello, Samson,” Cullen said, supporting his weight against the stone frame of the cell. Samson eyes snapped open at the sound of Cullen’s voice and he sat up a little higher, his hackles raised.

“What the fuck do _you_ want, Rutherford?” He growled. Cullen felt a sting of pride that he could get that kind of reaction out of the man by his mere presence. He shifted against the stone, attempting to find a comfortable position, though his placard and pauldrons made it difficult. The buckles of his vambrace caught on the rock as he tried to cross his arms and Cullen cursed, the words coming out slightly slurred.

“Are you… _drunk?_ ” Samson asked incredulously.

“And what if I am?” The words sounded petty, childish, even, but Cullen found he didn’t give a shit as he slid down the brick to sit on the cold floor of the prison, his armour scraping loudly.

The Red Templar barked a laugh. “And you decided, absolutely pissed as you are, to go and visit me of all people? How shitty was your day, exactly?” The smirk on his sickly face was agonisingly smug. Cullen was tempted to open the door of his cell, just so that he could punch it off.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he hissed instead.

Samson chuckled and dragged a hand through his hair. “You know,” he said, looking at Cullen as he picked at the stitching of his gloves with raised eyebrows, “you came down here for a reason. So what is it, Commander? Might as well tell me, I’ll be here all night.”

Cullen tried to find the reason, but it felt like he was grasping in a barrel full of fish. Why was he here? What could Samson possibly offer him that he could not find in one of his friends? When he thought he found the answer, it slipped between his hands leaving him confused and a little bit defeated.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I was going to tell the Inquisitor that I—and then when I saw, I went to the tavern instead and then it seemed like a good idea to come here and—“ and what? Talk to Samson about his trouble with women? Get advice from a traitor locked in his cell?

A quiet part of him, something dark and damp, covered by the years and sealed away by a burning sense of betrayal, whispered to him from the depths. _No_ , it said, _you want comfort from someone who isn’t a stranger. Nobody else in this place knows you better than Samson_. Cullen smothered the voice with disgust.

“Ah,” Samson breathed, as if everything had finally become clear. “You like her. But what, you saw her with someone else? Ouch,” he said, wincing theatrically.

Cullen glared at him, a sneer twisting his face. He knew he was rising to Samson’s bait, but the man knew how to push his button so easily. “Don’t patronise me,” he snarled at the Ex-General.

“She’s a good woman,” Cullen continued, looking away from the man at the back of the cell. “Fierce, kind, courageous—“

“Nice tits, too.”

“—She takes care of the Inquisition,” he ground out over Samson’s churlish snark, “She didn’t have to do the things she did, but the Inquisitor does them anyway. Any man would be lucky to have her.”

“But that man isn’t you,” Samson said pointedly.

“No, _Samson_ , that man isn’t me.”

“So who was it, then?” Samson asked, and Cullen heard a scrape against the rock. He turned his head to glance at the man. He had relaxed back against the wall, evidently deciding that Cullen was no threat to him. Both his legs were propped up now, and his hands hung bonelessly over his kneecaps. The way he sat with his shoulders back, made his tunic stretch tightly across his chest, hinting at a solid strength that was at odds with the man’s sickly appearance. Cullen cleared his throat.

“It was... uh, it was Blackwall,”he conceded.

Samson threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter that echoed around the cavernous prison. It was loud, scratchy, and slightly ridiculous. Cullen considered getting up and leaving the man to his insistent cackling. “That fossil?” he asked between hoots, wiping the corner of his eye.

“ _Do you mind?”_ Cullen snapped at the laughing man, but Samson dismissed his anger with a wave, still chuckling. It took a few moments for the man to pull himself together enough to speak coherently.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, not sounding the least bit sorry. “But I think that speaks more about her tastes, than yours, Cullen.”

Hearing his name come out of Samson’s mouth so easily startled Cullen. He had said it with such familiarity, that it was almost like the past ten years had never happened. The two of them weren’t sitting in a dank prison in the Frostbacks, but the warm great hall of the Gallows, joking over a meal, just like they used to. Cullen could almost see him, mouth pulled into an uneven grin, his tinny green eyes filled with mirth. Cullen shook his head. That man from his memories was nothing like the one seated behind him. He had died the moment he had taken his lyrium the wrong colour. The man behind him had muted, pale eyes, edged with an angry red that bled into the shallow hollows of his under-eyes and down his thinned cheekbones. His face was waspish, his brows permanently heavy and furrowed. No, nothing like the man from before. Cullen realised he must have been staring, because Samson suddenly looked a bit sheepish, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Look, shit happens, I suppose?” he offered.

Cullen snorted and lowered his eyes. Sobriety had started to prick at the corners of his mind. Cullen wished it would go away.

“I should have said something sooner. It’s my fault.”

Samson grunted noncommittally. “Like I said, shit happens. You don’t always get the ones you want,” he said, vaguely uncomfortable. Cullen was reminded of another face with a pang. That’s was the way, wasn’t it? Cullen always seemed to want what he couldn’t have. The thought was a bitter drink to swallow.

They gazed at one another awkwardly for a few beats before Samson sighed, looking like he was trying to find words to say. “I don’t know what to tell you. There’s more fish in the sea, yadda yadda. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.”

Cullen huffed, leaning his head back against the stone slabs. The breeze was cool on his brow, caressing away the knots that formed in preparation for the incoming headache he would no doubt have come morning. The lack of lyrium would make it worse. Not for the first time Cullen regretted the decisions he made tonight.

“But what’s wrong with this fish?” He asked softly, suddenly tired, and not at all feeling his thirty odd years.

“Nothing.” Samson shrugged as he looked at Cullen with an inch of pity and something deeper Cullen couldn’t quite name. “That fish is just in love with someone else.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

“And you’re sure he was drunk?”

“Undoubtedly, Sister Nightingale. His words were slurred when he asked me for my keys, and then he said something about General Samson I couldn’t quite understand.”

Leliana leaned back in her chair, mulling over the information she had been given. So Cullen had stumbled, smashingly drunk, into Skyhold’s prison to speak to Samson? She had never known the Commander to be that irrational. Cullen obviously despised the man, so why would _he_ be the first one Cullen sort out? Leliana hummed, it left questions; possible implications that the Spymaster did not like. That, and she hated not knowing. Gaps in information made for piss poor Spymasters.

The Gaoler shuffled uncomfortably where she stood. “Should I inform the Inquisitor, Sister?”

“No,” Leliana answered brusquely, standing from her seat to pace to the window, gloved hands clasped behind her back. “I will keep an eye on the Commander, and inform the Inquisitor if need be. I trust you have told no one else?”

“No one, Sister.”

Leliana nodded. “Good, you are dismissed.”

The Gaoler moved to the steps. As she was about to descend, Leliana paused, pursing her lips. “Oh, and if our Commander comes to visit General Samson again, let him. Do not ask any questions, do not stop him.

“You will then tell me when he visits and for how long. Am I understood?”

The Gaoler looked confused, but gave an astonished nod nonetheless and left Leliana to her musings. Her lips twitched at the vision of a drunk Cullen growling for a ring of keys. _Dear Commander,_ she thought, _what in Andraste’s name are you doing?_

 

\--

 

Cullen groaned when a beam of sunlight spilled onto his face, it was far too bright for so early in the morning. Rolling a thick tongue around his mouth, he found his teeth were furred and there was a horrendous taste that made the Commander gag as he swallowed. He rolled to the other side of the bed, eager to get out of the harsh light that made the pounding in his head spike in intensity. However, his actions were for nought as he was stopped half-way. With a grunt, and bleary eyes he looked down to find the source of the resistance. The buckles of his placard had caught in the cotton sheets, twisting them around the metal. Cullen ripped them away with a weary sigh.

So he had managed to make it back to his quarters after his little foray with Samson. Though evidently, he thought as he inspected the half undone vambrace and the mantle carelessly thrown on the floor beside his pauldrons, he hadn’t made it much further. He barely remembered the journey. Just cold mud and stone, after Samson had said something about fish. It was so odd, that Cullen was half convinced it had been a dream.

He huffed and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the mattress, running a hand over his jaw and scratching over the lengthy stubble. Other than the disgusting taste in his mouth and the pounding headache, Cullen felt surprisingly _good._ His talk with Samson, at least what he remembered of it, had put his mind at ease a little. There was still a sourness there, but it was but an inkling of what it had been, and nothing compared to the monster it could have been, if Cullen had let it grow. That Samson had been the one to do it though, left Cullen perplexed. Perhaps it was best not to think too much of it. He would have probably felt the same if he had gone to Varric, or even Cassandra.

Cullen paced to his dresser and splashed the stale water, from the bowl, over his face. He shrugged off the rest of his armour and went through his monotonous morning routine without further thought of the man sitting in the cell under Skyhold.

The next two weeks passed quickly with the Inquisitor gone. While the mage was off procuring support in the Emerald Graves, her advisors had been meeting at regular intervals to speak with each other about their own tasks that they had been set.

Leliana had been moving her agents eastward into Tantervale to keep an eye on the brewing discontent between the nobles and the lower classes. If they could work both angles, she had said, they could have support of both the nobility and the underground network of thieves and smugglers that frequently passed through there to Nevarra. Cullen wasn’t exactly comfortable with such underhanded means, but he supposed that was why he commanded the army and Leliana, the spy network.

Josephine had been in a diplomatic flurry, as requested by the Inquisitor. Invitation upon invitation had been sent out to the nobles of Nevarra, inviting them to their holdings in the Frostbacks. Many had responded favourably, and a fair share of them had invited the Inquisitor and her inner circle to various balls and banquets, all grasping for the chance that Lady Trevelyan would attend _their_ gathering, and not another’s. Cullen had sighed in exasperation when the Antivan woman had told them. Nobility was truly that same everywhere.

“We must attend at least a few of them.”

“We have a _war_ to fight, Josephine. Surely they can hold off until the Darkspawn magister and his army are defeated?”

Josephine had tutted good naturedly at him, a wide smile gracing her lips.

“Now, now Commander. Do not forget who supplies the Inquisition’s army with what it needs. Coin does not flow into our coffers on a whim. Plus,” she said, hiding a small giggle behind her hand, “I’m sure the nobles of Nevarra would welcome the sight of our handsome Commander looking his best.” Cullen had dropped the conversation at that.

His own task hadn’t been that difficult, but the message that was given to him two days ago had been unsettling. Rylen’s scouts had reported on Venatori activity within the canyons to the east. They had abandoned whatever artifacts they were trying to uncover in the northern parts of the Approach when the Inquisition arrived, and every subsequent report seemed to assure that they would continue to retreat back to Tevinter. Apparently not so.

Rylen had disclosed that there was a sizable force left in the gorge. The scouts couldn’t get close enough to see what it was the Venatori had found, but if the Tevinter supremacists were interested in the site, then it did not bode well, whatever it was. Knight-Captain Rylen was not a paranoid man, but even he had expressed his nervousness about the matter. The threat was not currently dire enough that Cullen would approach the Inquisitor about the matter. Even if it was, there was too much going on that Trevelyan wouldn’t have the time to deal with it. If worse came to worse, Cullen himself may have to travel westward to put the issue to bed, and ease a few minds.

The Inquisitor was welcomed back with the usual fanfare a few days after Cullen had received his letter. As he watched from the upper stairs next to Leliana and Josephine, he noticed Blackwall trailing close behind her. He would touch her every so often, whisper something in her ear that made her smile. When he tapped her hip and headed off toward to stables, she kissed his cheek, chaste and gentle, miles from the passionate kiss Cullen had been unexpectedly privy to a few weeks before. He clenched his jaw, a thread of envy binding the muscles together. 

He recognised the truth in Samson’s words, but that didn’t mean he didn’t or could not feel the echoes of bitterness. When she had called on her advisors for a debrief, Cullen had almost snapped at her before chastening himself. She didn’t owe him anything, he knew that. The fact that he had almost let that bitterness make itself known had shamed Cullen, hounded him out of the war room as soon as the meeting concluded. He needed to sort his feelings out, lest he damage the good relationship with Trevelyan that he already had. She had frowned at him, a hint of worry in her eyes as he left. Cullen had tried to give a reassuring smile, but the way her brows dipped lower said that it hadn’t worked.

An hour later Cullen had found himself walking the ramparts next to the Templar tower. It was blessedly peaceful here, even if Cullen felt no such thing. The dark grey banners flapped lightly in the high breeze, their silver stitching reflecting the morning sunlight, making the fabric look almost ethereal. Cullen watched people pass through the Chantry garden below. Sisters and Mothers glided between groups of gathered faithful; speaking their blessing before moving off, a copper or two added to their belts.

Continuously, his eyes were drawn to the grass-covered stone, or more specifically, what lay underneath it. Cullen chewed his lower lip as he contemplated. He had not thought of going back to see Samson after that night of poor decisions, why would he? The only reason he went in the first place was because the drink had coerced him into it. There was no using that excuse now. Not that it was an excuse, because he was definitely _not_ considering going down there anyway.

He looked up to the balcony of the Inquisitor’s quarters. The fine glass doors were wide open, no doubt letting the cool breeze sift into her bedroom. The thread of envy returned as he watched the wind flutter the drapes, this time worming into the core of his gut, and Cullen sighed, defeated. He had been fine after he had seen Samson. Cullen had thought the jealousy had been bested, and laid to rest, because he hadn’t felt it; even when he had thought of Blackwall and Trevelyan together. But now, it had returned, and was beginning to affect his professional relationships. He had a duty to the Inquisition to pull himself together, and if that meant… talking to Samson, then well, there were always worse fates.

 

\--

 

The stairs leading down to the depths of Skyhold were as quiet as his first night there, though understandably that was most likely because the lack of visitors to these parts. The Gaoler was reading a book when he approached her, but she snapped to attention when she spied his boots over the edge of her page.

“Commander!” She exclaimed, jumping from her seat and giving him a salute. Cullen felt a bit foolish as he was suddenly reminded of their previous encounter, but nodded politely to her in return.

“Good day.”

“Are you here to see General Samson?” She asked, already pulling the ring of keys from her belt.

“I, uh, yes. Thank you.” Well, she was certainly onto it.

The woman hurriedly paced to the door, and turned the correct key into the lock before he had even finished his sentence. Cullen thanked her again as he stepped through the creaking door to the other side, gently closing it behind him. He was glad to have that over quickly, she probably hadn’t wanted a repeat of last time as much as he did.

He could see a pair of hands hanging through the barred door as he drew closer to Samson’s cell. The man’s head popped through the bars to briefly glimpse at the Commander before he heard a chuckle and the hands pulled away as Samson retreated further into his new home. Cullen paused at the cell door to watch the man leaning against the stonework in the middle of the cavity. Samson had a wide, satisfied smirk on his face that showed a great deal of his teeth.

“So he returns,” he said, tilting his chin toward Cullen. “I’d been wondering if you would. Sober this time, I hope?”

Cullen humphed and ignored the jab, instead turning to inspect Samson’s lodgings, able to see more in the light of day and with a clearer head. It was a cramped little space. One would be hard pressed to fit more than three fully grown men across, shoulder-to-shoulder. A thin bedroll ran lengthwise, its fur ratty and slightly mouldy, Cullen noted with a hint of disapproval. The only other object was a small chamber pot that sat in the corner, as far away as possible from Samson’s sleeping arrangement. All in all, it was slightly depressing.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Samson said, watching Cullen do his once-over.

“’Could get you a book or something,” the Commander mumbled, before he shook himself out of his pity. This was no more than Samson deserved.

The Ex-General snorted, and spread a hand, as if he were inviting Cullen to seat himself on an imaginary canapé. Cullen eschewed the gesture and braced himself against the threshold, content to stand this time around. 

“Problems relating to Inquisitor again?” Samson asked bluntly and to the point. Cullen covertly appreciated the forwardness. “I heard the cheering for what I assumed was her. Does that always happen? I imagine it would get tiring.”

The younger man exhaled through his teeth. He considered making Samson work for his answers, but if he were to be honest, he wanted this conversation to be over as quickly as possible. The jealousy would go away again, and the Commander could return to his work without the distraction.

 “Something like that, perhaps,” he replied. “Inquisitor Trevelyan has been in the Emerald Graves for the past three or so weeks. I was fine. When I thought of them, I didn’t feel, well, like _this_ and then I saw them together as they came through the gate, and…” He gave a low growl, frustrated, and feeling like he wanted to put his fist through the brickwork. This whole situation was ridiculous.

“Sounds like you need to clear your head,” Samson sympathised. “Relax, take some time off. Go find a whore and get it out of your system.”

“No, uh, I don’t—“ Cullen cleared his throat, trying to chase away the sudden flush the spread across his cheeks. “I have a lot of work to do. Corypheus is on the move, I can’t possibly take time for myself now.”

Samson chuckled at Cullen’s discomfort. “Well you have to do something. You don’t have much experience with unrequited pining, do you?”

The Ex-Templar flinched. Samson’s crassness had struck a chord within him that he thought gone since the Inquisition’s inception. The face of Amell appeared in his mind, sad and splattered with the blood and gore of the abominations that lay at her feet.

“Or you do?” Samson inquired, calling Cullen away from the memory. The man in the cell stood up a little straighter, evidently interested. Cullen had never told anyone in Kirkwall of Amell. It was still too fresh when he had arrived in the city, and although he had roomed with Samson, talked to him often and of many different things, he had never told him of her. How could he? She had been his shame, a mage of all things. The anger at her kind had been fire in his veins, and although he had never participated in the things the other Templars would do, he never denounced it either. Not like Samson had. Even if the man’s distaste at the treatment had been murmured instead of shouted. Samson had been wary to fully speak his mind to his fellow Templars, even Cullen, with good reason. Dissent amongst the ranks would have assured his removal from the Order, just as much as his mistake with the letter had. Trivial in both respects, but not so much to someone who demanded authority the way Knight-Commander Meredith had.

“It’s not the first time.” Cullen leaned away slightly so the man could only see his profile as he spoke. Talking to Samson directly seemed too personal, too familiar. That ship had sailed. “There was a woman; a mage, in Kinloch. I think I loved her.” It was hard to admit that to himself, to another, after all these years. “And she was… _Maker_ , Amell was something. Never had I seen another mage with such talent at her age, even Trevelyan may have had trouble keeping up with her. She was beautiful, and I couldn’t tell her how I felt, I couldn’t even talk to her without stumbling over my words like a fool,”

“I’d tried a few times. Speak to her about trivial things, but I couldn’t. She approached me once, I can’t even remember what she said, I was so nervous. And then I ran! Maker’s breath, I ran off like a coward.” Cullen groaned quietly at the memory. It was just before Amell had left with the old Warden, and definitely not one of his proudest moments.

“Amell,” Samson muttered pensively. “I know that name. Are you talking about _the_ Amell, as in the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Yes, the very same,” Cullen acquiesced.

“Well, _shit._ ”

The Commander shook his head, continuing on. “She left with a Grey Warden, and I didn’t see her again until Kinloch fell. She saved me. I would have been dead for sure if she had not come. I… said some things I am not proud of, and did not get to say the things I had wished to instead. She fell in love with someone else, and then died a hero. There’s not much more to it. Maker, I _wish_ I had told her.”

Out of all the reactions Cullen had expected from Samson, laughter was not one of them. When he heard the quiet chuckles slipping out of the man, he snapped toward him in anger. Samson was rubbing his fingers over his raised brow like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He should have known better than to come down here to speak to him. He couldn’t believe he thought it would make things better.

“You weren’t in love with her.”

Cullen stopped, thoroughly stumped. “Excuse me?”

Samson repeated the words as if their meaning was obvious. “You weren’t in love with Amell, Cullen. You were infatuated. The stammering, the sweaty palms, the nervousness, that’s a crush, maybe a little obsession, but not love. ”

“Oh?” Cullen scoffed at him, “and what, pray tell, Samson, is love supposed to feel like, if not that?”

Samson shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I know it’s not that.” He ran a hand through his hair and scratched at his neck, considering his next words. Cullen felt some of the anger evaporate from his bones as he watched the man. He wanted to hold onto that burning but for some reason it didn’t stay, fleeing with the cool air that pricked at his cheeks as he waited for Samson’s answer.

“Peace,” he finally said, rubbing his jaw, “when you’re with them. No worries, no fear or nervousness, just this sense of calm, you know? You could be happy, feel like you’re more, just by being near them. Sometimes your heart beats fast, but it ain’t ‘cause you’re nervous.” He sighed. “I don’t know.”

Silence settled between them. Samson looked like he wanted to say more; he tried opening and closing his mouth a few times before grunting and clenching his teeth, looking away to study the moisture damage on the wall of his cell. His words weren’t exactly profound, one wouldn’t be hard pressed to find them in a poetry book, or even a common fable, but there was a truth to them. The words cowed Cullen, as simple as they were. He tried to take them, emblaze them over his memories of Amell, but to his sorrow, they didn’t stick. The revelation of that fact left Cullen with a sense of mourning.

The Commander curled his fingers around the iron bars of the door. Tension was suspended between the two men like waves of heat in the dog days of high Solace. Another reminder of Kirkwall.

“Was there someone?” Cullen asked quietly, tentatively. For once he didn’t feel like pushing. Samson drew his attention from the mildew and glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

“Before you came to Kirkwall, there was… ah, never mind.”

 

\--

 

Cullen returned a few days later, and then another few days after that. Somewhere in the time since his first visit, he was left wondering when it was that he had stopped hating Samson.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was searing upon the vast desert plains. The heat rode the shifting sands in waves, cowing the beasts which roamed the Approach, to the safety of the shade beneath the high rocks of the canyons. Rylen would have given his whole week’s pay to join them in the cool shadows, but instead he was forced to trudge on, up through the maze of twisting rock that lead to their destination. A small contingent of soldiers followed behind him, evidently fairing no better than himself. Tears of sweat were heavy on all of their brows. The salt stung his eyes, no matter how many times the Knight-Captain tried to brush the droplets away.

 A tap to his waterskin said that it was half empty already, not even two hours march from the northern camp where they had taken momentary rest on the journey from Griffon Wing Keep. They had been lucky enough not to have to deal with any enemies on the road, save for a curious phoenix, and Rylen would like to keep it that way; they had to reserve what strength they could in case the Venatori in the area caught their scent.

His scouts had reported continuous activity in the area, which was far too much for comfort. What they were doing exactly, neither the scouts nor subsequently Rylen had any idea, but he was not willing to wait to find out. The scout that had managed to get the closest said the Vints coalesced around some ancient Tevinter ruins. The group that remained around the core ruins was large, but a smaller, more manageable force was stationed slightly south. If they could pick off that platoon, then it would make access to the central force a thousand times easier. Maker willing, they may even find some information as to why they were there in the first place. The Inquisition had already taken the entire northern part of the Approach, as such, the Venatori left here had effectively blockaded themselves in. What could be so important that they could willingly do so?

Rylen had received Commander Cullen’s order not a day past to do what he could to restrict the enemy. He had ordered the rations and soldiers to be prepared that night and they had left at dawn, when the sun had not yet soaked the sand to glass. That grit crunched beneath his feet now, though as they passed into the threshold of an alcove, there was a moment of relief as the breeze whistled through the rocks to rush across his skin. He held a hand up to halt his soldiers, and take note of their surroundings. Small groans of relief sounded throughout the group.

Their path through the canyons left them on a ridge, with their destination resting just below. The scout had detailed the area well, and Rylen pulled the map from his hip-pouch to check they were in the right place. The small detail of trees thankfully held true to the sight that spread out before him. The protection of the canyon from the intense sun meant that sand had given way to sprouts of green. Thick, tangled vines – Deathroot – strangled the feet of the sickly looking trees, showing their own blossoms of deadly red. They had to be wary then, the Venatori would be well stocked with poison from the plants.

“Melinda.” Rylen called to the single mage he had chosen to bring along on the mission. She had been the only one he could spare, all others (few that they were) had been needed to attend as Healers in at the Keep, and help keep up the fortifications. Plus, Rylen didn’t trust another quite as much as Melinda. She was a slight woman, older than he, but not by much. It was odd to think that only a few years ago he had been charged with keeping her under lock and key at Starkhaven’s Circle. Now, she walked freely as his equal in all but rank. These were bizarre times, indeed.

“Yes, Knight-Captain?” Melinda asked as she crouched on the crag beside him.

“How many mages can you sense down there?”

The mage closed her eyes, an aura of blue threads rising from her form. Rylen watched as her face creased in concentration. They needed to be quick about this. It would do their ambush no good if one of the Venatori mages caught wind of another of their kind above them.

“Five,” she said at last, and Rylen swore under his breath. Besides himself, there were only two other Templars in their group. He hadn’t expected so many mages to be far from the core force. Rylen prayed to Andraste that the majority of those Vints had never encountered a fully powered Templar before. Mages aside, they still did not know the exact number of other Venatori soldiers down there. He nodded toward an elven rogue and she disappeared in a haze of dust, her shadow the only evidence of her existence.

“Five more,” she whispered to him half an hour later, and the number made Rylen feel slighty better. Ten was good. Their fifteen could handle ten.

He let his own soldiers catch their breath for another half hour, before he sent the rogues in ahead under a thick blanket of stealth. The rest of his soldiers shadowed him as he picked his way through the rocks, keeping behind the larger boulders, and often pausing to assess below. The rogues spread out along the barrier of the Venatori camp would not attack until he gave the signal.

A man stood guard, facing east towards the billowing sands. Two simple swords were strapped to his hip and Rylen watched as another man – wearing the same lightly coloured wrappings – approached him to speak into his ear. The first one nodded at whatever was said before retreating back to the camp, pulling at the collar of his vest. A changing of the guard then. The man walking back would be tired, and the new guard at his station wouldn’t be restless and thus paranoid enough to expect an attack. Two out of the ten could be taken down easily. They had to go now.

The Knight-Captain moved quickly; shimmying down the broken stone to get as close as possible to ready the signal. The Inquisition soldiers fell into position, fanning out either side of him. Rylen winced as some of the smaller rocks scattered noisily as they moved, and he sent a quick glare to the offender, earning him a sheepish look in return. Shaking his head, the man quickly glanced around the boulder. The camp was in full view now.

Four of the five mages could be spotted milling around the area. Most of them were working under a large, open canvas tent, studying the objects that rested on top of a table in the middle. Rylen couldn’t see the last mage, but there was an even larger tent off to the side that may be where the Vint was hiding. The man with the two swords slumped down in the middle of the camp near the last three of his comrades. A woman oiling a wickedly curved bow, and a man picking at a small loaf of bread sat next to each other on a log, in quiet conversation. As Rylen turned to spy the last of the Venatori, he had to swallow the sudden dryness in his throat.

A giant beast of a man stood under the shade of a waning tree, observing the camp with a sharp eye. He was enclosed in an almost full suit of plated armour that moved seamlessly together as he shifted in the heat. A terrifyingly large maul was strapped to his back; the three spikes jutting out from the front face were easily longer than any of Rylen’s fingers.

“ _Maker’s cock_ ,” he breathed as he looked at the man. The relief he had felt before wavered.

“Sir?” The soldier crouching at his side looked to him warily.

Rylen frowned as he turned to address them. This would not be easy. “We go in quickly. Take out the mages as fast as you can, and stay out of the line of sight of their spells. Melinda, try and kill or maim the others seated in the centre, the rogues should help you.

“I will head for the big fella and try to take him down, or at the very least, distract him until someone can help me. Be careful, there is still an enemy lurking somewhere out of sight. Am I clear?”

His troops gave him a salute, signally that they had understood. Rylen closed his eyes and breathed. There was no time for anxiety now. He focused himself inwardly, letting the lessons from his training sharpen his mind. Run straight and true. Do not stop. Do not let the man attack any others. _One… two… three_! He thrust his hand around the rock, holding up two fingers in the air.

The effect was immediate.

The Inquisition rogues exploded from their cover, quickly descending the entire camp into chaos. The knives of the elven assassin found the Venatori archer’s neck, ripping a stream of blood across the grass. The woman choked and clutched at her wound as she spun, but two more thrusts to the chest had her dead before she hit the ground. Her comrades gave a yell of surprise and Rylen took that as the cue to charge from their hiding spot, pulling his sword and shield from his back as he ran straight for the giant.

His two fellow Templars headed for the canvas tent, overturning the table as they barrelled into the mages, their hands and swords glowing a silvery white. A spell glanced off a shield and Rylen had to duck as it screamed past his head. The giant Venatori ahead tore the vicious maul off his back with a roar and smashed the spiked head into the stomach of an Inquisition rogue that had wandered too close. _Fuck._

Rylen picked up his pace, dodging out of the way of the sword that sliced at his shoulder. The double-sworded warrior had seen fit to halt his charge, aiming another swing at the Knight-Captain’s belly. All of  sudden, a purple bolt of electricity hit the Venatori straight in the chest, locking the man’s joints for a bare second before launching him through the air like a rag-doll. Magic seared the air, filling Rylen’s mouth with a bitter tang. Melinda. He would have to buy that woman a drink later.

The giant had already taken down another soldier by the time Rylen thrust his sword at him, smashing the maul into the man’s neck. He blocked Rylen’s swing with a heavily armoured forearm, forcing the Knight-Captain back a few steps to regain his balance. The Vint had a harsh face, littered with tiny scars that pulled the skin when he snarled. Rylen internally cussed every curse word he knew as he raised his shield in preparation for the warrior’s next attack. The huge weapon hit at an angle, making the metal screech as the spikes scratched across the surface. The force of the failed swing threw the Venatori to the side, allowing Rylen to dance off to the man’s unguarded flank. His sword bit between the plates, and the Knight-Captain hissed in success when his blade came away bloodied.

His success was short lived as the Vint shrugged off the wound with a growl and raised his weapon as if he never received it. The next hit was far more fruitful. The maul slammed into the shield with full force, the spikes tearing through the decorated eye as if it were paper. They protruded through the iron just above Rylen’s hand and he felt a shiver rush down his spine at how close he had been to losing his fingers. With a cry, the giant pulled back his weapon, ripping the shield from Rylen’s arm, and nearly taking him with it before he relinquished it to his enemy. The manoeuvre had him sprawling in the dirt, the hard ground forcing the air from his lungs with a _whoosh._

The Venatori stalked toward him, dragging his weapon behind. Rylen lunged to the side when the man flung the maul down where his head had been. He had to keep him moving and tire him out. Big as he may be, the weapon was heavy, and his plate encumbered him more so. Rylen had his own bits of plate armour on, but it was only pieces strapped to boiled leather. He was lighter. Faster too.

Rolling to his feet, Rylen danced back, out of reach. He gripped his sword with both hands. If he could get close to the armour’s weak spots – under the arms and back of the legs, he could use the extra force to hack through any resistance. The sounds of battle raged around him, but he dared not look away from his opponent to see how his soldiers fared. The giant grinned at him, nodding his approval of Rylen’s movements. Well, if the bastard wanted a proper fight, then it was only fair that the Knight-Captain give it to him. He feinted to the left at the last moment of his lunge, twirling behind the large man. Rylen swung toward the unprotected hind, but his enemy anticipated the attack and dipped low, safeguarding the exposed area. The blade bounced off the metal with a clang, and Rylen drew back again with a frustrated growl.

He kept moving like that, in and out. The Venatori swiped at him, pushing him back, but wasn’t able to react fast enough to keep Rylen away. Nor was Rylen, however, able to strike a proper blow. The giant twisted his body at just the right time so that the thick plates slid harmoniously together, protecting against the sharp edge of the Inquisition Captain’s sword. The man was tiring though, surely enough, even if Rylen was too. Growing frustrated, he smashed the flat of his sword into his enemy’s lower back with all the force he could muster. The giant let out a cry and stumbled forward catching himself on his maul.

“Knight-Captain!” The shout was enough to break Rylen from his focus and he looked away from his opponent towards its source. One of the Templars, bloodied but alive was rushing toward them, her weapon poised to attack. Her hair streaked out behind her like a red tide and her armour shined brightly in the sun; an absolute vision of divine righteousness.  

The woman’s expression turned from ferocity to shock as she looked past where he stood, and Rylen jerked away at her reaction.  The maul descended with a crash, missing its intended target, but glancing against Rylen’s off-hand as he turned. He felt his armour crunch and the bones snap under the force of the blow. A scream ripped from his throat as he fell to his knees and he curled the limp arm close to his chest, somehow managing to keep hold of his blade.

Agony ripped a path of fire through his body, spreading from his forearm like a disease. He grit his teeth against the pain, leaning heavily on his sword. The Templar woman flew past him toward the Venatori, a howl upon her lips. She managed to rain several blows down on him. A hard thrust of her shield to his face snapped his head back and Rylen grinned at the sight. The end was finally here.

He pushed himself to his feet, balancing his blade before him with his remaining good arm. When they got back to camp, Rylen was going to fucking chew her ass out for distracting him, but he would forgive her for the moment. They had a giant to kill.

His relief quickly turned to ash in his mouth when he saw her trip.

The Venatori giant kicked his foot out, sweeping the Templar’s legs out from under her. Her impact with the ground jarred her shield away, leaving her completely exposed. The man did not waste the opportunity. He brought his maul down on her chest, the spikes ripping straight into her heart and the rest of the iron head caving her ribs with a horrible _crunch._ Rylen felt the breath leave him as assuredly as it left her, the maul coming away drenched in gore. _Maker preserve us._

Rage replaced the fire in his veins, just as deadly in its heat. He charged forward whilst the man was still bent over his victim and swung his sword. The Vint glanced up, unexpectedly baring his throat to Rylen’s blade. It sliced the delicate skin with ease and blood sprayed from the wound with each dying pound of the man’s heart. He gurgled, dropping his weapon and raising a hand to his neck. The Vint was dead before it got there.

Weariness settled in Rylen’s bones, but he pushed it away, turning from the corpses to the battle that still raged. He could not rest now. Bodies littered the ground, a frighteningly even number of them his own soldiers. Flashes of spells still lit overhead, and he saw one of his men put his sword through the chest of a Venatori mage, the ice on her fingers dying with her. As he hunched his shoulders and readied himself to step into the fray once again, he steeled himself. Victory was not assured, but damn him to the Void if he would not try to save the rest of his soldiers and retreat.

There was a sudden, searing burst of light and sound.

It rolled out from the central tent in waves, flowing and cresting as it made its way outward. Rylen had to squint and shield eyes from the bright flash. The light coming from its source quickly died down, yet its kin still echoed across the sky; the waves moving slower the further they went. Rylen turned back to face the camp but found he almost couldn’t. It was as if his body reacted slowly, almost begrudgingly to his command.  The spike of panic he felt still moved at lightning speed.

Rylen had never seen anything like the sight before him in his life.

It was not his body that slowed, but time itself. Sand and dirt kicked up by the fighting moved at a snail’s pace through the air. He could see the magic core of spells that had almost halted in their journey; the swirling vortex within rotating around itself ever so gently. Behind it all stood an older man in bright red robes. He did not move at the agonizing pace of his surroundings, but strolled normally, without hindrance. Rylen watched with wide eyes as he pitched his bladed staff into the gut of the Inquisition soldier who had his longsword raised in an arch above him. The blood sprayed forth naturally until it hit the barrier of magic that stilled time, then it flowed, separating into lazy droplets that stained the air red. In that moment, the Knight-Captain knew with absolute certainty that if this continued as it did, they would all die.

Rylen once again turned inwards as he had not an hour before, searching for the tug of lyrium in his veins. It flowed brightly, a crystalline blue, that curled its tendrils around his mind as he called for it. The song was soft, melancholic and beautiful, and Rylen _pulled._ The discipline instilled within him from years of training was the strength he used to grapple against the dulcet resistance. _Come on, you bastard._ His hand took a century to raise, but he kept on, and as the silvery mist coalesced about his fingers, time started to return to its natural pace.

He unleashed the smite forth with a silent yell.


	5. Chapter 5

The dripping outside the cell was an irritating, persistent echo. It had only started in the past few days, as the weather had gotten slightly warmer and melted the long stalactites of ice that hung from the patchwork ceiling. Again and again, always with the _tap, tap, tap._ Samson tried to focus on the thunder of the waterfall instead, but that was still noise. Maker, what he would give for some damn _quiet._

The rough stones bit into his bare back as he rested against them. The chill was nice on his aching muscles, hot not only from the red lyrium, but also from the strain of exercise he had recently ignited them with. There was nought else to do in his tiny cell; may as well feel the hard push, lest he go soft with the regular meals being passed to him. There was the added benefit of sleeping easier, even if it was still hard to come by. Samson couldn’t remember the last time before his defeat that he ate so well, even if it was just hard bread and watery stew filled with chunks from the ass of a lame horse. He hadn’t _needed_ to eat much, the corrupted lyrium had provided him with strength enough. He felt an answering roil in his gut, and shivered with the lingering ache of want.

Corypheus had needed it. He had needed it. Taking it and accepting its price had been necessary, that’s what he had told himself. Samson wasn’t so sure about that anymore. He wasn’t so sure about a lot of things, lately.

He pulled on his tunic, relishing in the loud pops of his joints, and eyed the book that was half-heartedly opened on his bedroll. Cullen had given it to him when he last visited. It was a novel, nothing special, simply a story about a man forced into a long, perilous voyage at sea. Samson had flicked through it, read the first couple of pages, but had yet to commit to it fully. He doubted the Inquisitor would allow her prisoner a book from her library, so it must have been one of Cullen’s own. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, nor why the Commander kept on returning to see him.

The man had spat acid the first time he strolled in here, drunk off his ass. The memory of it still made him chuckle. Who knew that a straight-laced, valiant Commander like Cullen would let himself get shitfaced over a woman? Samson licked his teeth. He was still full of surprises after all these years, it seems. Then, slowly, progressively, Cullen had stopped being so vitriol, and Samson… Samson in kind had stopped feeling so bitter. When they talked, it felt like the last ten years had been no more than a dream, and Samson hadn’t become the fool that he had. The Ex-General may not know why Cullen came, but he was… glad he did.

A rattle of keys against the door awoke him from the light doze he had fallen into. There was a whisper of conversation, before the heavy thump of boots sounded on the wooden walkway.

Samson rubbed the weariness from his face, grimacing at the slick sweat that clung to his temples and under his eyes. He would need some water to bathe again, and soon.

Cullen hovered near the door of his cell, his brows raised as he looked down at his prisoner. Even with how many times he had come down here, every time he hovered at the edge, uncertain, like he waited for Samson’s permission to enter his space. Even when he had let his disapproval of the Ex-General be known. The man practically owned the place and was face to face with a traitor, yet he still had that sliver of civility. Maker’s balls, he really hadn’t changed at all.

He had a little stool in his hands this time. Small enough that the older man wondered if it could even hold Cullen’s weight, with all the layers of armour he insisted on wearing around the fortress. He placed it on the floor with a clatter, and sat down before he addressed the other man.

“Morning. Enjoying your book?”

Samson followed the man’s line of sight, and grunted. “It’s interesting, I’ll give you that. One of yours?”

“It was given to me by Thrask, in Kirkwall. I’ve read it a couple of times, normally when things were quiet.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck like he was embarrassed to admit he’d slacked off at some point in his life. “I haven’t touched it these past few years though. There’s been so much to do.”

“Simpler times.” And they had been. For all the shit that had gone on in the wretched place, it seemed like a child’s game compared to this. “Is it good at least?”

Cullen made a non-committal noise and lifted a shoulder. “It starts off interesting enough – boy from a small village leaves for the city joins a group of Whalers. Finds love then is unexpectedly forced to go to sea where life gets hard. Ah, I suppose I shouldn’t spoil the story for you.”

“Does he get a happy ending at least? They normally do in these sorts of stories, right?” Samson snorted. He’d never really been one for novels. The majority of them were too damn predictable for his liking. There was also the fact that the patience required for such a thing wasn’t exactly one of his strong suits.

“If you read it, you’ll find out.” Cullen replied allusively.

With that, their short conversation promptly tapered off into nothing. Well, this was awkward. Samson tried to find something to say.

“You know,” he said, picking up the silence, “If I do miss anything from Kirkwall, it’d have to be the watery piss they called ale from the Hanged Man. Not so nice to drink, obviously, but bloody good to get sloshed on.” When Samson had coin to spare after he had paid for some dust with the couple of coppers he had gotten from a smuggling job, he would usually go down to the tavern and do exactly that. Singing bawdy tavern songs while shitfaced beat returning to his hovel to spend the night alone.

“I… never actually tried some,” Cullen admitted. “I was sent down there a few times to retrieve some of the Templars, mainly recruits, but I never stayed.” He chewed on his bottom lip, thoughtful. The way his teeth tugged on the skin made Samson’s stomach jolt. _Shit_ , not the time.

“Stuck to Hightown then?” he asked, a little too quickly, and a little too flippantly. Cullen looked up at him and gave a lopsided smile, which made his cheeks puff out. Samson was reminded of the boy, no, man, who had given him a similar smile, albeit a wary one as he was showed his cot in the little barrack room by a veteran knight.

“Uh, yes. Occasionally. Though I didn’t go out much at all.”

The conversation became easier as it carried on in a similar fashion. Cullen recalled a story of one of the mages setting fire to the upper floor curtains, letting out a snorty little laugh as he did so. Samson hadn’t heard that in years. His lips pulled into a grimace, achingly melancholic. Cullen’s first months in the Gallows hadn’t been easy, and he hadn’t seen much of the man during the long, hot days, as he had his own problems to deal with in the form of two mages. Cullen was always there before the older man returned at night though, in his bunk, looking painfully small. He wouldn’t say much – answering questions, but never asking them. Taking orders and doing them dutifully. Samson had pitied him. Then, in the dark of the night, he would sometimes be awoken to the sound of soft pleading. Begging, bound in desperation and choked with the threat of tears. Samson had rolled over and shut his eyes.

After a particularly brutal training session by Meredith, he had found the man leaning heavily against the wall, tentatively picking at the buckles of his gauntlets. He had worked himself so hard, he could barely stand. Samson had taken him then, gently guided him to the cot and sat him down. Cullen had protested of course, but he quickly shut up when the older man began to methodically remove the pieces of his armour. As more and more parts of the blond’s body had been revealed, Samson had been increasingly thankful that his own heavy armour shielded his growing erection.

Once Cullen had been stripped to his breeches, the full extent of the battering the man taken had been revealed. Large purple and maroon bruises littered his chest and back where a weapon had slammed into the plate, reverberating through the metal. Though he had no scratches or cuts, blood blotted under his skin in places, creating an array of half-moons and circles. He was a sorry sight.

Samson had escorted him to the baths, and stood outside the door as he washed. He remembered muttering the chant of light under his breath to chase away thoughts of water slipping down Cullen’s body. Maker, think of anything else. Emeric streaking through the Gallows, Meredith in her knickers, _anything._ Could he really have been blamed? He was a pretty thing, all haunted eyes and wild curls. Samson had pressed the metal of his gauntlet so hard into his lip, it had split. It was a natural reaction, he had told himself. He hadn’t laid with anyone in _months_.

After that, Cullen had opened up to him more. They had become… something. Not quite friends, not quite acquaintances. He had been ejected from the Order not long after. Then on, the chant of light had become no better than poison on his tongue.

It was with the lull of conversation again, that the question that had been pulling at his mind rose again, nagging and prodding. Samson was a weak man.

“Why do you keep coming down here, Cullen?”

“I…” The man in question paused, and furrowed his brow. When he opened his mouth again, the words sounded like they could have come from a recruit on his first day of training – an illusion of bravado with no foundation. “I believe that there’s still something good left in you. You can still help right your wrongs, Samson.”

Samson snorted incredulously at Cullen’s confession. “You really believe that?”

The man nodded; this time without hesitation. “I do.”

There was still something good left in him. Apparently. Samson wasn’t sure how much he believed that. He had tried to do right by his men, to give them the glory they deserved when the fucking chantry abandoned them. But now? He sighed, looking back to where Cullen was seated on his ridiculous little stool. The man was staring at him with a soft expression, so different from mere weeks ago. The look daunted Samson in its composure, and the old feeling it brought. Why was he looking at him like that? Did he even know he was doing it?

_Damn_ him.

He had to change the subject, had to get away from this wretched _calm._

“You asked me if I had anyone… before. I did. In a way.” Samson inspected the black dirt caught under his fingernails. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d forgotten to put his gloves back on. “Mages and Templars, right? Something is always bound to happen.

“There was a woman from Starkhaven. Transferred to the Gallows a year or two before you came. Flighty thing, couldn’t decide what she wanted, but for a time, it was me. I did the stupid thing and felt more for her than I should have.” It had been easy with her, and just as quickly it hadn’t been.

Cullen stayed blessedly quiet has he spoke. He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin; quietly contemplative. Had Samson looked the same when Cullen recalled Amell?

“She fell in love with someone else. Maddox.” He ignored the low inhalation of breath that came from the other man. “I hated him; and her too, for a while.” He did, Maker’s balls, he really did. Maddox could have what he couldn’t, and Samson had been a fool from the start. “Then, shit, I saw how happy he made her, and it made me happy too.” And then somewhere along the way, Maddox had become important as well.

“Eventually Meredith got paranoid that too many mages were in the same place. Could ‘conspire’ she said, so she restricted them to the separate towers. Maddox couldn’t see the woman he loved, so I helped him.”

“The letter,” Cullen concluded sombrely.

“The letter.” A piece of paper scribbled with words of love was his own personal Maferath and they didn’t even have the decency to be for him. “It was her words written to him, when another Templar caught us. The knights took Maddox away, and Meredith demanded I tell her who it came from. I lied and said it was from outside the Gallows. Not much to it after that. Maddox was made tranquil and I was kicked from the Order out on my arse.”

“And the woman?”

“Transferred back to Starkhaven. Didn’t want anything to do with what had happened. I didn’t blame her. I ended up in the gutter with a thirst for lyrium, but I’m sure you know how that story goes.”

He had never heard what became of her, besides that last piece of information given to him one night when he had plied a knight with ale at the Hanged Man. If Samson were honest, he hadn’t thought of her much over the years. That part of his life was done, no matter if a piece of it kept coming to visit him in his cage. He could have searched for her after the circles fell and it all went to shit, but he found he didn’t… _want_ to. Let her live her days in peace, or the semblance of it that could be had nowadays. In the end, his feelings had faded just as much as his memories of her had.

“I could have helped you, Samson. If you had come to me.”

Samson laughed at that, loud and belly-deep. “No you wouldn’t. If you had, you’d have probably been sniping in the gutter right next to me. Plus, you were that bitch’s pet. You wouldn’t have disobeyed her.”

Cullen winced like a whipped dog, hunching in his furred mantle.  The older man felt the brush of guilt against the tightness in his head, even if it wasn’t a lie.

“My pride would have stopped me, anyhow.” It was a weak reassurance.

Cullen lifted his hand toward the bars, but drew back once he thought better of it. His face was conflicted, and Samson couldn’t quite read it. “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

Apologies wouldn’t scrub him clean, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“Tell me about your work, Commander. I’m sure that’s partly why you come down here, even if you don’t think so,” Samson said, eager to steer the exchange away from his problems.

Cullen sighed, running a hand through his hair. Some of the strands broke away from their waxed prison to lightly coil against the man’s forehead before he pushed them back into place on his return trip.

“Things are going as well as they can be, I suppose,” Cullen said, matter-of-factly. “Though trouble has been stirring in the Western Approach. The Venatori refuse to leave a specific area, though we don’t know why.”

Samson hummed, thoughtful. Before his capture he had heard bits and pieces of the happenings in western Orlais through the grapevine. There were massive amounts of Tevinter ruins in the area that the Venatori had been anxious to explore as the empire’s civil war had laxed the barriers that had previously stopped them from doing so. He had been given a report at one point, that he had admittedly skimmed, but it had outlined the Venatori’s intentions in the Approach.

“If my guess is correct, then the area they’re hanging around is called the ‘Still Ruins’ or something like that.” Samson scratched his nose, trying to recall the details. “There was a rumour around that the mages that used to inhabit the place worked with a specific type of time magic. Don’t think it was trying to go back or forward like Alexius wanted, though.” He shrugged.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen swore, standing abruptly. He paced the length of the walkway just within the bounds of the cell, his fingers rubbing at his jaw. “Can you recall anything else?” He asked, looking down at Samson.

“Not really. Like I said – rumours. They hadn’t found anything by the time I was captured, or if they did, then they didn’t let the Red Templars know about it.”

The Commander leaned heavily against the railing, his back to the cell. It was arched as he braced himself against the wood, making the makeshift rail creak dangerously. If the man wasn’t going to throw himself over the side like he looked he might, poor workmanship would probably do it for him.

“Does this complicate things?” Samson asked.

Cullen laughed, not sounding amused in the slightest. “You could say that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and blew out a puff of air that frosted slightly. The breeze whipped it around in the sunlight that poured through the walls of the broken cells, creating the illusion of a curious wisp from the fade. “I… I should go do something with this. Now.” Cullen made to leave but paused before he did, turning back to Samson.

“Thank you.”

The door shut with a heavy clang that echoed throughout the dungeon, and Samson was left alone to his thoughts once again. _Well_ , he thought, eyeing the open book on his bedroll, _maybe the time wouldn’t have to pass slowly._


	6. Chapter 6

Though he had said to Samson that he needed to leave to deal with the new information on the situation in the Approach (which wasn’t untrue), he had been glad to turn his back on those cells. The full, open sky and the ring of sparring swords was a balm for his frayed mind. From cuirass buckle to boot brim, it felt like a weight had shivered off Cullen the moment the heavy door to the prison banged shut. The whole visit had left him feeling utterly confused, and if he was being honest as he paced his office wall to wall, a little frightened.

A menagerie of emotions churned in his gut, fighting for dominance. They had wailed and clawed under his skin when he had faced Samson, and he had tried so damn hard to keep his face straight; to hold the niggling swirl and flutter at bay. But, as more words passed between the men, the emotions had become like worms poking through the surface of the earth after rain. When had these feelings come? Why did he keep going to see that man? Sweat clung to his temples.

Why had Cullen said that the reason he went to Samson was because he believed in him? That had not been the truth, though thinking on it now, there had been truth to it.

Samson was not the monster he believed he was, the one he had desperately wanted him to be. Samson was just a man. A man who made a stupid decision that cost far too many lives, to be sure, but just a man. Though Cullen was still angry at him for what he had done to the Order, couldn’t forgive him for poisoning the well like he had, he could… understand.

‘ _I gave them hope, just like the Chantry, just like you. I made them believe their pain had purpose_.’

Cullen slammed his fist into his desk, scattering the papers across the surface and onto the floor. He had been lucky to have Cassandra approach him, and it was only his wish to leave the Templars that had saved him from corruption, in the end. But what of those that had wished to stay with their brothers and sisters, even when the Chantry abandoned them? They were dogs chained to a forgotten house. And they were desperate enough to chew off their own legs rather than starve. Though Samson had taken those chains and merely handed them to a new master, he did so believing that they still had worth before they inevitably fell to the maddening thirst.

The fact that he had cared enough for that, said something. Cullen had read the letters Samson had sent to his troops in Emprise, had listened to Maddox’s dying words in the corrupted temple. They had believed in Samson, and in turn, Samson had believed in his men. Admitting one could be wrong was always hard, but perhaps Cullen had been harsher of the former General than he deserved. There was still good in there.

Nevertheless, when he had said those words to Samson, they had flew from his mouth on a whim, like many things in his life, lately.

In truth, the real reason Cullen repeatedly trailed down those steps, into that cold, damp cellar, was because when his work got stressful, and the ache of withdrawal bit at his heels, Samson… _calmed_ him. The rumble of his voice was soothing, leaving him with an air of peace, and Maker’s breath if that was not a ridiculous notion. Yet, there it was. All trepidation about his work, the future of the war, and lately: his romantic troubles with the Inquisitor -- none of it seemed to matter. He could forget about it for thirty minutes, for an hour, or however long he sat down there with him. It had come to a point where he looked _forward_ to going down there to see Samson. An odd thing in retrospect.

He had gone down there this morning, expecting to talk, and then go back to work, but something had changed. When had Samson’s laugh become pleasant to listen to? He was sure, _he was so sure_ it sounded like a hysterical noise a hyena would make when it was being beaten bloody with a stick. Yet, today it had sounded rich and full. A heady guffaw that spoke to him of tavern ale and sword oil. Of long, hot nights in a little barrack room. It had been difficult not to smile when he heard it.

Then, when Samson had looked up at him to watch him pace the boardwalk, the morning light had caught his face. He had leaned into it, exposing his bloodshot eyes as a bright, tinny green. They didn’t look like that. When had they changed?

It had startled Cullen so badly, he had nearly run out of the dungeon without thanking the man for his information on the Venatori.

It must be the lyrium, he thought, hurriedly dropping to his haunches to pick up the scattered papers. It was finally leaving Samson’s system, and the man was returning to how he used to be. Dagna must be doing some sort of detox that Cullen hadn’t been told about; perhaps at the Inquisitor’s behest. Her prisoner had all sorts of knowledge of the enemy after all. It would help their cause greatly if he was treated well and could aid them.

Yet that did nothing to explain why his heart had started thundering at the sight. In Kirkwall, it hadn’t done that, he was positive. It couldn’t mean that he… no, that was impossible. He needed some air.

A brisk wind greeted Cullen as he opened one of his door onto the secluded side of the battlements. Not many came to this side of Skyhold – the watch tower was empty and there was a large, gaping hole in the side of the fortress that stopped anyone from trying to get up near the main castle. The watch wouldn’t come till late evening, at the very least.

He glanced down to the stables below as he walked. A scouting party had just returned and the horses were being washed of their sweat in the open grass. As he swiped at his own temples, Cullen thought he wouldn’t mind joining them.

As predicted, the westernmost turret was empty, allowing Cullen to lean against the stonework and gaze out into the high Frostbacks. The mountains were shaded in cloud, but a few peaks speared through here and there. Behind them the cumulonimbus clouds were almost mountains unto themselves, as high as they reached into the frosty blue. The fresh air helped a little, but that was more to starve off the headache than to ease his Ex-General shaped problem.

He couldn’t… he couldn’t be _attracted_ to Samson. That was absolutely ridiculous. Samson, was, well, _Samson._ More than that, he was a _man,_ andCullen had only ever been attracted to women. It wasn’t that he had anything against those who came together with the same sex, it was just that Cullen had never seriously seen such a thing in himself. He liked soft, supple breasts, long hair and curves. Full lips and warm thighs. Not hard muscle and sharp edges. He was sure of it… wasn’t he? Cullen groaned into his hands. He couldn’t deny the warmth that pooled in his groin when he thought about how Samson’s tunic had pulled across his chest (wasn’t he thinner than that? Maker, what had they been feeding him?) and the sweat that dampened the strong lines of his neck. It made his mantle feel like a furnace, even in the chill.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen other men’s bodies before, he was a Templar, a soldier, and such a thing meant living in close quarters. His eyes hadn’t lingered _too_ long, and he’d never stroked himself to completion over any one of them. His thoughts had always strayed to the female recruits, or Amell, or the female Templars, or recently, Trevelyan. He may have _thought_ about masturbating to a man, wondered what it would be like to be taken how a woman might, but he’d never actually jerked himself to idle speculation.

But this all didn’t detract from the fact that it was fucking _Samson,_ of all people, thathe was feeling it for. Maker’s breath, maybe if he just ignored it, it would go away. It had to.

He returned to his quarters to get back to work, pointedly doing his best to not think too deeply about the man inhabiting the lower cells across the way.

\--

Arranging the supply lines and organising a report regarding the Western Approach, using the new information, for the Inquisitor kept Cullen at his desk well past sunset. Even when the dinner bell chimed once, and again a second time in warning, he ignored it in favour of the quill between his fingers.

He had just blown out the stick he was using to light his candles, when a heavy knock sounded at the door. At his call, an elven messenger flew in, his face and hair drenched in sweat and sullied with dirt as if he’d been constantly moving for days with little rest. The man looked utterly exhausted where he stood.

“Urgent word comes from the Approach, Commander,” he croaked, pulling a letter from his leather-bound satchel and handing it to Cullen with shaky hands. Urgent. That word did not bode well.

Cullen opened to note quickly, scanning over the hastily written report with increasingly widening eyes. ‘ _Large Venatori activity_ ,’ ‘ _unusual magic_ ,’ _’Inquisition casualties_ ,’ were the words that reached off the page. Rylen’s name was scribbled at the bottom, the lines of ink jittery and slightly blotched.

Cullen dismissed the messenger with half-hearted gratitude, and scrubbed a hand over his face. It seemed Samson’s warning about the Venatori had come too late, and their forces had already paid the price. Part of him regretted not taking this threat more seriously sooner, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

Cullen went through the motions of pulling on and tucking in his furred mantle. He had to let the Inquisitor know immediately. It would be up to her as to decide whether a war room meeting should be called to discuss further action, but for now, he would make haste to her quarters, letter in hand.

Servants were still clearing the Great Hall of supper as he passed through it. His stomach gave a protesting gurgle, but he carried on up past the cold stone throne. The stairway to the Inquisitor’s room had yet to be cleared of the spare wooden planks used for repair and Cullen stepped around them cautiously, mindful not to put his boot into one of the many gaps as he sidled up the stairwell, taking some of them two at a time. He had not been up this way often. A Red Templar banner hung mockingly from the upper platform.

The Commander didn’t have to wait long after he knocked to hear the Inquisitor’s voice beckoning him into her room.

As Cullen trudged up the staircase, he found a fire; warm and roaring from the carved mantle. Trevelyan was seated at her similarly fine oak desk, parchment in her hand and her brows furrowed as she read it. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye as he approached and set her task down with an easy smile on her face.

“Cullen. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cullen couldn’t help but return the gesture, but something important was absent. “Inquisitor, I visit on urgent business, I’m afraid,” he said as he handed her Rylen’s letter, suddenly apprehensive.

Trevelyan pressed her long fingers to her lips as she read. Her hair was loose from its bun, sweeping across her shoulders in waves. The candlelight from her desk bought out the colour of her eyes nicely, cresting the edges with gold. Yet, as Cullen clenched and unclenched his fist within his glove, he noticed something odd about himself: his palms didn’t sweat. The leather wasn’t tight on his skin, and his heart didn’t beat faster as he looked at her. He wasn’t nervous in her presence, yet neither did he feel this intense need to be close to her. He just _was._ Professional. Friendly. Nothing more. He questioned himself for what felt like the hundredth time that day. When had that happened? The world seemed to be moving at a much faster pace than he realised. Cullen tried to reach for those feelings that had kept him up at night, but what he found was a muted, fading creature. The more he prodded at it, the more it became like sand between his fingers.

To his surprise, the revelation left him feeling… _relieved._

The Inquisitor licked her lips when she finished reading, looking to him expectantly.  “I thought the Venatori had left.”

“Our forces at Griffon Wing thought the same,” he said, drawing closer, and pushing his personal problems from his mind. “Yet for the past few weeks, I’ve received reports of a small force remaining in the canyons. There seemed no cause for worry – their numbers weren’t substantial enough to attack our base, and we thought that they would soon retreat north like the rest. Yet, when I spoke to Samson,” Trevelyan raised a brow questioningly at that. “He said that they were most likely investigating some ancient Tevinter ruins and rumours of a unique magic that manipulated time. Now, with Knight-Captain Rylen’s report, we have confirmation of that rumour.”

Cullen tugged at his earlobe, that previous regret returning. He had been foolish. “I apologise for not bringing this matter to your attention sooner, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan sighed, and shook her head. “I would not so readily blame you, Cullen. Venatori and Red Templar activity have remained in all of the locations we have taken for the Inquisition. You could not have known that they were up to this.” The mage picked at the inner corner of her eye, muttering under her breath, “time magic, why is this never easy?”

“Should I send out requests for Leliana and Josephine to convene in the war room?”

“No,” The Inquisitor replied, shaking her head again. “It is too late in the evening to be of any use. We will meet in the morning, to discuss how to approach the situation and who I should bring with me to deal with it. Rest, Commander.”

Cullen bowed his head, and turned for the door. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

As he approached the rail of the staircase, Trevelyan’s gritty voice sounded again, and Cullen looked over to find her staring at him, her fingers steepled under her chin.

“When you next see Samson, thank him for me, would you?” She drawled, and amused smile on her lips.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Though they could understand the importance, neither Leliana, nor Josephine were pleased with the Inquisitor’s intention to leave for the Western Approach.

“We are at a crucial time in our negotiations with Nevarra, Inquisitor. To leave now could mean all our work,” ‘ _my work_ ,’ she didn’t say it, but Cullen could hear it nonetheless, “will have gone to waste. If we are to face Corypheus, we will need these alliances.”

“I know, Josephine, and I’m sorry, but the Venatori must be dealt with. If we do not, then our entire force in the Approach could be under siege,” Trevelyan urged, as she rolled a little fist-shaped marker between her fingers.

The Ambassador didn’t have an answer for that, but her distress pulled at the lines of her face. The woman didn’t even notice when the candle attached to her tablet dripped hot wax on to her parchment.

“As you will, Inquisitor,” she said thickly, at last. She closed her eyes and puffed out a small sigh, the links of her jewelled necklace jingling like tiny bells. Though Cullen had no patience for nobility, he felt pity for Josephine. No doubt she would have to negotiate her way out of their game like a woman in a pit full of lions. Nevertheless, Cullen was glad to see that the Inquisitor held the situation in the Approach in higher regard than contracts and alliances with a kingdom a thousand miles north.

Leliana stalked toward the massive table from her place at the window. The chainmail of her clothing swayed with each step, and her back was as straight as ever; hands clasped in their usual place behind her. Even relaxed as she looked, there was still a small frown on her face, and her lips were tilted – displeased with what she was hearing.

“Remember, Inquisitor,” she said as she inspected the map unfolded across the surface of the wood. “My agents have been hard at work to secure the underground smuggling passage in Tantervale. Though it could still be secured without a line to Nevarra, it would… hurt us.” She traced the route with her finger, tapping the parchment when it landed on Nevarra’s capital.

“I am aware of how dire the situation could turn in the Approach, do not misunderstand,” the Spymaster continued, “but it is something to keep in mind, going forward.”

“Our forces are just as important,” Cullen defended, breaking his silence. He could understand, really, he could, but it was beginning to become ridiculous that they were even arguing about this still. “We cannot leave them high and dry to face this threat alone.”

“Perhaps we could send some of our soldiers stationed here,” Josephine piped, scratching the wax from the board of her tablet.

Cullen shook his head. “And who will lead them?” He countered, flicking his hand toward her. “We cannot send them out aimlessly. They could meet trouble on the road.”

“We have many fine capt—“

“Enough!” The Inquisitor’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

She sighed, softly placing her marker on the brick coloured swirls that represented the vast dunes to the west. “I have made my decision and will prepare to leave at dawn on the day after next. If any of you have further concerns, I will hear them in private, but we get nowhere prattling on like children.”

She looked tired. Dark rings stained the skin under her eyes so deeply they almost looked like bruises. Trevelyan had evidently not had as good a night as Cullen had wished her. That he had probably been the cause of her lack of sleep made him feel a little guilty, even is his own night had been similarly wakeful.

‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’ had taunted him as he lay in his bed, and an eviscerated corpse with glassy eyes had stared at him when he rolled over and shut his own. His dreams had simultaneously gotten better and worse that night. The creature with slick purple skin didn’t tug at his ear and try to slip her hand down into his breeches. She didn’t whisper of the obscene things she wished he would do to her, in fact, she wasn’t there at all. Instead, the walls and floor had been coated in red, littered with the bodies of nameless Templars; more meat than men. One though, laying in a bed of shattered crystals, didn’t belong there at all.  Yet, he stared sightlessly at Cullen all the same.

Cullen had woken up choking and stuck between a rock and a hard place; waiting for the first rays of warm light to touch his skin and trying not to imagine that they were calloused hands instead.

“If there is nothing else to be said, then you are free to leave and get back to your duties,” Trevelyan finished, pushing away from the war table even though she still studied it, her face hard.

Leliana lingered for a moment before nodding to Josephine and joining her as they passed down the hall. When Cullen didn’t make to follow them, Trevelyan looked up.

“Commander? Are you alright?”

“I…” _I don’t know._ “I am fine,” he stated. Trevelyan nodded her head, but didn’t look convinced. He felt he should say something else. Assure her that he truly was fine, but he couldn’t quite think of the right thing to say. “Good day, Inquisitor.” It was a poor substitute.

The Great Hall was bubbling with conversation as Cullen closed to door to Josephine’s office behind him. Everyone from nobles to Dwarven carta members huddled in their groups, some casting suspicious looks between them. Though it was difficult to tell who exactly the Orlesians were staring at behind their brightly painted masks, with the burning on his neck, half the time the Commander was convinced it was him.

He stalked toward the massive doors, but paused as he levelled with the stone fireplace. Varric wasn’t at his usual post at the foot of the table, but Cullen was not looking for him.

‘ _Thank him for me, would you?’_

It hadn’t been his intention to see Samson today, not with the mess in his head and the twisting in his gut. The man _had_ aided them with his information, though. They now had more to go on than Rylen’s frantic letter, alone.  It wouldn’t hurt just to show his gratitude with a small gift. Nothing more could or would be meant by it. Plus, going down there with a level head would prove that the feelings that insisted on tugging at his wrist had no real hold over him.

Cullen spun on his heel and walked back the way he came. Instead of continuing on through the second set of doors into Josephine’s office, he turned left and trudged down the staircase to the cold, open room below. He hadn’t been down here much, but it looked as if the space had been cleaned up nicely, and large, detailed paintings now hung on the walls (probably Josephine’s doing).

An elven servant leaned on the wall in the light of the doorway up ahead, chatting quietly to someone on the other side. Cullen approached the kitchen apprehensively, unsure how to go about his request of something for Samson.

“Excuse me.” The servant jumped at the sound of his voice, hastily arranging herself from the casual, careless position she had held, into straight-backed attention.

“Commander! I-I did not… how can I be of service?” She stammered in a thick Starkhaven accent, smoothing down the plain apron that she wore. The shadow of her conversation partner retreated from view, escaping back to work within the confines of the scullery.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, it would do well if he seemed at least a little assertive. “I was wondering if you had something I could give to a, uh,” he searched for the appropriate word to call Samson. Cullen couldn’t very well say he intended to sneak the food to a high profile prisoner. Maker, that thought made him recognise how stupid this all was. “An _associate_ of mine.”

“Oh!” The girl squeaked. “Oh, yes of course!” She beckoned him inside the square room as she moved to the other side to arrange something on the table. Several cooks were hard at work, cutting and pealing the fruits and vegetables that had been gathered into large baskets and sacks. Several stews boiled on the open fire, tended to by a woman well into her sixties. At the end near the open door that lead down to the stables, a tall, thickly muscled boy stood chopping into the head of a boar. He seemed at home among the legs of meat, sharp cleaver in hand. If he swapped that cleaver for an axe, Cullen didn’t have any doubt that the boy would be as much a beast on the battlefield as the dead one he swung into with a _thump._ The tenacity in which they all worked had the Commander’s admiration, even if they probably kept their heads down for his benefit.

“Commander.” The elven girl returned, holding a small square of something wrapped in paper and twine. At his questioning look, she elaborated, with a shy smile on her lips.

“It’s pie. Fish and egg, Starkhaven speciality. I baked it this morning so I apologise if it’s a little cold.”

Cullen waved off her concerns and took the package with a grateful ‘thanks.’ The elf flushed a soft pink and bowed low, clutching the edges of her apron. “If you need anything else, Commander, please don’t hesitate to let me know,” she insisted.

“I’ll do that, thank you again.”

\--

Contrary to Cullen’s amended plan, he didn’t immediately go to see the man in the lower cells.

Hours passed as he repeatedly looked to the innocent little package sitting on his desk, and repeatedly came up with excuse upon excuse as to why he shouldn’t go just yet. It was only going to be a short visit – just in to give Samson the pie as a thank you, then out again to return to his quarters. It would be five minutes at most. _There was still so much to do_ , he told himself, licking his lips and looking at the meagre stack of folders off to the side. He had finished the pile an hour ago. From there, Cullen had proceeded to clean all the unnecessary things off his desk, and returned the books to their shelf. He then had to take the time to sort the shelf alphabetically, because one could never know when a book may be needed quickly. He was simply thinking ahead.

The light from the lit candles bathed the package in a warm, golden glow. The sun had long since gone down, and Cullen had departed and returned from supper, leaving it sitting there in the middle of his desk. It would definitely be cold now, but Samson had no right to complain. Cullen sat in his chair, staring at it accusingly. Maker’s breath, this was ridiculous. He had never known himself to be a coward. Hadn’t he insisted that this wouldn’t mean anything? Giving his book to the former General hadn’t meant anything.

Had it?

Cullen swore under his breath. He wanted to grab his sword and retreat to the training ground to take out _whatever_ this was he was feeling out on an unoffending dummy. Cassandra did it all the time, it would not be so odd if he did too. Yet, that would still be avoiding the problem. Even if he went now, the package would still be here upon his return. The thought of lobbing it off the battlements was a tempting one.

_Just do it, you fool,_ a soft voice that sounded suspiciously like his elder sister, told him. _Get it over with, already._ Cullen pushed back his chair, and almost stuffed the package into his pocket before hesitating. That would damage it. Better to hold it.

The Gaoler stood upon his arrival, as she usually did. He waved away the little stool when it was offered. “No need,” Cullen said. “I won’t be long.”

The woman nodded, placing her book down and pulling out her ring of keys to do her usual routine of opening the door. She was probably considering just giving it to him and having another set made, at this point. Now more than ever, did Cullen consider that a bad idea.

Samson was leaning back against the bars, when the Commander entered. He had his book in one hand and a knee pulled up to his chest to act as an arm rest for the other that turned the pages. The position was probably the only way he could read in the dull torchlight. As Cullen drew closer, the man closed the book with a thump and set it down on his bedroll.

“Evening,” Samson drawled, slow and easy.

Cullen stopped a good foot away from the cell, rolling the package in his hand. Just give it to him and go. The other man was looking at him expectantly, but he suddenly found himself having trouble speaking. The way Samson was clenching and unclenching his hand, and rubbing the pads of his fingers together had become horribly distracting. _Say something, fool!_

“Good evening,” he said at last, “you look like you’ve gotten further into your reading.” He silently thanked the Maker that his voice came out even and clear.

“Hm? Oh, right. It’s not bad,” the man shrugged noncommittally, pushing at the cover.

Cullen swallowed thickly before clearing his throat.

“Here,” he said simply, handing the paper parcel to Samson through the metal bars. The man took it with a raised brow. “For the information about the Approach. It helped,” Cullen elaborated.

“What is it?” Samson asked, picking at the twine.

“The servant told me it was fish and egg pie.”

Samson went still, staring at the little parcel in his hand. The Commander felt an unexpected stir of worry. The other man didn’t like it. How was Cullen supposed to know that he hated fish and egg pie? But instead of the disgusted frown he was expecting, when Samson turned back to him the man’s face had split into an astonished grin. It pulled his lips so wide that his full set of teeth shone in the torchlight.

Cullen’s heart jolted wildly in his chest. He… he had to go. Now. He swung round suddenly, his face hot.

“Wait,” Samson rasped behind him, and Cullen stopped dead. “Going so soon? Haven’t finally gotten bored, have you?” _No, and that’s the problem._

“Come ‘ere,” he bid.

Cullen’s legs moved without his permission. He couldn’t look at the other man’s face. _Yes, he could_ , he told himself, summoning a spectre of courage. Samson was looking up at him, his grin fallen into a soft smirk.

“Thanks.” For staying or for the pie? The Commander didn’t know. Regardless, it made him feel a little more at ease.

He pressed his back against the bars and slid down until he was seated beside the former General. The pauldrons under his mantle protested, but he ignored it, releasing all his built up tension with a sigh. It was easier with his back to Samson, though he could still feel the heat wafting from him in waves. From the corner of his eye he could see the man looking at him from over his long nose.

“You’re welcome,” Cullen murmured.

The silence pulled, but unlike so many other times, it lacked that air of awkwardness – something which had been born from mistrust and a lack of understanding. Cullen didn’t know if he trusted Samson, but the understanding was there and had made itself at home in the recesses of his gut.

“I understand, you know. Why you did it. Join Corypheus, I mean,” he said softly. If Cassandra had never approached him, would he be where he was now, with the Inquisition? Or would he be in that little cell, right alongside Samson?

Samson hummed, a deep and warm sound that relaxed the muscles in Cullen’s shoulders. “Do you?” He asked.

“The Chantry abandoned the Order, they wanted to wash their hands of men and women they saw as little more than feral dogs. You saw that they still had worth and gave them that,” Cullen said. His teeth felt like rubber.

“How altruistic of me,” Samson countered.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” His actions felt poisoned with selfishness now, even if that hadn’t been his intention. No, maybe not selfishness, perhaps it had just been foolishness. The two seemed to have a habit of blending.

The half-opened parcel containing the pie sat at his side. Had his information really been that important as to grant him this? How did Cullen know? He never recalled speaking about his favourite food to the man.

Cullen fell silent, waiting for Samson to answer. He couldn’t see the Commanders face fully – it was turned away from him. However, what he could see had been tempered by the light of the torches strapped to the walls. It hung on the tips of his eyelashes and softened the harsh shadows on his jaw. The man looked younger than the thirty odd years he should be now. The hardship that lined his face was gone, chased away, if only for a moment.

Samson felt an ache. Wholesome and balmy, coiled deep in his chest. It was something he hadn’t felt in such a long time, and the warmth of it almost left him breathless.

“I didn’t want them to end up like me,” he answered dutifully, and Cullen shifted against his shoulder. “Meredith was gone. You were gone, and the Order was aimless. When the Chantry left, they took the supply of lyrium with them.”

He remembered those first days. He had been so full of rage. Samson had been back with his brothers and sisters, with the help of Hawke, for less than a month before the Chantry had been blasted into the Void. Everything had happened so quickly after that. The Chantry had stepped away, Cullen had left with the Seeker. All those years of suffering in the gutter, only to have his hope snatched out from under him. He had been convinced that it was all some kind of divine joke.

More than that, the other Templars had been damned along with him.

“It got bad. One woman pulled the hair straight out of her scalp. She just couldn’t handle the withdrawal. No one had the money to pay for the blue stuff, and soon everyone started turning on each other. Or any mage they could find.” Samson sighed and pushed his fingers into the ridge of his brow. He could feel Cullen looking at him now. “I had stepped up to try and maintain some sort of order when Corypheus approached me. The withdrawals didn’t affect me as bad, I had years of practice.

He offered lyrium. More than that, he offered glory and my sword back.” Templars don’t have a place in the world anymore, so sayeth the Chantry. But what of those that remained? Did they?

“I would have been a fool to refuse him,” Samson continued, through the grit of his teeth. “And… I was a _bigger_ fool for accepting.”

Cullen watched as the other man shook his head and sighed through his fingers. His throat felt raw at Samson’s words. He had listened with wishful disbelief, but the guilt had sunken in deep. There was no lie, and it now pained Cullen to admit that he had hoped there would be. It would have made accepting the other man’s confession easier. Desperation was the creature that pushed Samson to become what he was, and not just in regards to Corypheus.

He hadn’t seen much of the other man in that last month, the mounting tension between the Templars and Mages had kept him busy. Plus, it had been years since he had encountered Samson; neither of them were the same men. The battle with Meredith had left a rotten taste in his mouth, rotten enough that he wanted to be done with the Order. Cullen had walked to Kirkwall’s docks without a backward glance. Funny how they now sat, shoulder to shoulder, pulled back together against colossal odds.

His tongue was dry in his mouth, and his heart swelled in an uneven tempo. _No,_ the voice told him, _don’t do it. Maker, don’t do it,_ but the pull was so frighteningly strong. The bones in his hand felt bendable, tenuous with no solidity as he raised it. It slipped through the gap in the bars that was so wide, Cullen’s head and neck could effortlessly follow it. He leaned forward before he could stop himself and his fingers collided with Samson’s jaw.

The angle was awkward but as the other man turned at the feel of his fingers, Cullen twisted and pressed his lips against Samson’s.

The former General gave a sudden grunt of surprise that made Cullen attempt to pull away, to turn back in shame, but a calloused hand on the back of his neck stopped him. It pulled him forward until the metal plates of his pauldrons clanged against the cell door. Samson’s lips were chapped, but he moved like a man who had found water in a desert.

The kiss wasn’t slow, and languid, but instead held a ferocity that Cullen met wholeheartedly when he let go of the prohibitions that weighed him down. The dam made of cracked stone and broken sticks burst and he was far too lost to hold it back. The fire in his belly roared in triumph, and Cullen used its power to run his tongue over Samson’s lower lip. The other man groaned a deep rumble that made the Commander’s bones chatter. He pushed forward, wanting more and Samson pushed back, threading his fingers into Cullen’s curls and swallowing down his tongue. It wasn’t perfect, their teeth clattered and nipped at the gum, but it didn’t matter.

It was when they had begun to slow and Samson smoothed his thumb over Cullen’s cheekbone that reality came crashing back. His stomach bottomed out, taking the fire with it.

By Andraste, _what had he done_?

He jerked back so fast, the other man’s hand was ripped from his neck. Samson opened his eyes in confusion, looking to the Commander for an explanation concerning the sudden lack of lips pressed to his own. He didn’t have to wait long.

The feeling in Cullen’s throat could only be described as absolute _terror_.

When he stumbled to his feet, Samson instantly followed him, clutching the bars of his cage in a vice grip.

“Cullen. Cullen, _wait._ ” But the Commander was headless to the other man’s calls. Hardly anything could be heard over the wash of his thundering heart. With a lunge, he surged for the door, not even attempting to look back.

As the heavy door slammed shut, the sound of Samson’s violent kick to the iron bars of his cell echoed with it.

\--

Trevelyan rubbed her eyes, her limbs heavy as she tramped up the stairs that would lead her to the Great Hall. Which would, in turn, lead to more stairs. Which would eventually lead her to the vast, comfortable bed that awaited in her quarters above. Blackwall had suggested she stay the night with him, but Trevelyan had refused. The last time she had spent the night in that barn, she was still picking bits of straw out of her hair, three days later.

The training field was empty when she approached it, or so she thought. A black shape moved quickly across the outer perimeter. From this distance, and the tiredness that pricked at her mind, it looked as if the shape could be a particularly large dog… Walking on two feet. Maker, she needed sleep.

The black mass stopped when it caught sight of her, and Trevelyan squinted.

“Cullen?”

“Inquisitor.” His voice sounded slightly choked, but he immediately cleared his throat and stepped into the light. His hair was curling at the ends, like a hand had been carded through it.

“Are you alright?” Trevelyan questioned. The man had been acting a little strange lately. The withdrawal must be taking its toll.

He cleared his throat again. “I’m fine. I was just… looking for you.”

“Oh?”

Cullen nodded, pausing to chew his lip in thought. When he looked back up, his eyes had hardened.

“You are needed here, Inquisitor,” he said, resolutely. “I will leave for the Western Approach in your place, to deal with the Venatori.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited the last bit with Samson, cause that POV change was probably confusing as hell.


	8. Chapter 8

The further west they travelled, the better he felt.

The sticky marsh flats of Deauvin soon gave way to brick red dunes and a beating sun. Only a few light coloured birds braved the heat, the rest had stayed in the ratty branches of the east, half-drowned in the murky swamps. They called and spiralled in the sky above the caravan that moved steadily into the mounting canyons. The soldiers that paced with it had long since removed the unnecessary layers from themselves, instead opting for light leather secured with plate as required. All of them wore helmets or at least some sort of cloth to protect from the unforgiving waves of heat that billowed down from above.

Cullen had opted to wrap a sheet of fabric around his head and neck like a hood, happy for anything to get that blasted heat off his nape. His mantle had been discarded back in the Exalted Plains, and ever since he had been steadily shedding more armour as they went along. The gloves were gone, so too was his thick leather tunic and breeches. In their place was something a bit more threadbare, but still strong enough to support his cuirass, and pauldrons. He had been tentative to remove more, lest he actually need it; after so long in the mountains, wearing less had him feeling exposed. An odd thing.

They had been travelling at a ruthless pace for almost three weeks now. Normally the journey would take longer, but the urgency of the situation in the Approach had them on their feet for extended periods. And although he often dropped into his makeshift cot exhausted, Cullen welcomed to tiredness. It stopped him from thinking too hard at what lay behind him. If his mind didn’t drift from his mission then he wouldn’t have to remember that he had to return.

The dreams could be ignored if he tried hard enough.

Three harsh days later and the great spikes jutting out from Griffon Wing Keep came into view. They had passed several Inquisition camps on the way to obtain essential water, but Cullen, and no doubt the rest of his men, were pleased to reach their destination. He had never seen the Keep before, only heard descriptions from Rylen and those of the Inner Circle that had visited the place. To him, this fortress was no more than a little marker on a map – cold, curved metal. The real thing was far more impressive:

It was built into the eroded sides of a cliff out of ancient, dark stone. The Tevinter fortress still stood strong, even though it had been claimed by another for the past thousand years, only to be briefly reclaimed and snatched away yet again. The stones fell loose in places, but the Inquisition had done a fine job of patching any serious holes in the structure’s integrity. Cullen trailed his eyes along the battlements to where the fortress’ ‘keep’ lay on the crest of the earthy pyramid. The finely edged spires stood starkly against the setting sun, like great black arrows piercing the twilit sky. The painstakingly crafted Keep must have been a quite a loss to the Imperium. Though, considering how vast and rich the empire was, perhaps it was simply another tiny jewel in the crown.

A call sounded from above as their party passed through the heavy iron gate into the courtyard beyond. Soldiers that had been milling around in various states of duty stopped in their paths to stare at the newcomers of their Keep. They all looked worked, faces covered with bits of soot, and their skin tanned from the relentless sun. Campfires had just started to be lit in preparation for the coming night and the glow cast on those gathered made them look otherworldly against the dark brick and mortar.

Cullen pushed back his hood as his mare slowed to a weary walk. He had worked her hard over the past few weeks, and she deserved rest more than any.

At the sight of their Commander, those soldiers that recognised him bolted upright from their seats, giving an immediate sharp salute. Those that didn’t, followed their peers bewilderedly, their own salutes half-hearted and tentative.

A man could be seen coming down from the upper ramparts, his armour marking him as higher rank. Though, part of it looked to be stripped from his arm, which was held about his neck in a sling. He had a small number of men and women gathered round him, trailing steadily behind as he walked to where Cullen had tugged his horse to a stop, boots thumping on the tile as he dismounted.

He passed the reins to a stable hand just as the man approached him, looking slightly worse for wear.

“Commander Cullen,” the Knight-Captain greeted in his lavish accent.

“Knight-Captain Rylen,” he returned, welcoming the shake of the man’s sole good hand. “How goes it?”

Rylen’s mouth twisted, scrunching the tattoos around his lips. “It could be better.”

That was one way of putting it.

Exhaustion pulled at Cullen’s limbs, urging him to retreat to a tent, _any_ tent to rest. He squared it away for the moment. There would be time for that later. Now, though, he was beckoned by the tilt of Rylen’s head to his own war table at the top of Keep.

It rested in an open marquee – a broad rimmed table decorated with a detailed map of the Approach. Little fist-shaped markers, so similar to his own dotted the surface, shining in the warmth of the heavy candles that secured the edges against the breeze. Near the middle sat a little red dragon, delicately wound in on itself and biting its own tail. It was placed amongst rocky cliffs and dark lines representing the tunnels that ran through a good part of the Approach.

The Venatori force.

Rylen shuffled in behind Cullen, pulling at the knotted part of his sling. “As you can see,” he said, pointing out their own dark pieces, “we’ve got them backed into a corner and surrounded from all sides. Still, the bloody bastards are holding their ground.”

“Have you engaged them since?”

“Light skirmishes; just enough to not let them get any ideas of retreat. I would rather they not run off back home with that odd magic they’ve got.”

Cullen frowned at the little dragon. Something didn’t add up. “How are they keeping themselves supplied? They should have been starved out by now.”

“You’d think so, but they must be almost out or surprisingly well stocked. I’ve had scouts sent north to try and see if there is some sort of tunnel network that they’re using to move supplies in but we’ve found nothing. The ones we have found have all been caved in. On purpose looks like.” Rylen shook his head in exasperation, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

If the caves were blocked off from intruders getting in, then the Venatori would have trouble getting out. Cullen found some relief in that at least. Still, was this magic so important that the enemy would willingly blockade themselves in for it? Their men had practically become sacrificial lambs to the Inquisition’s wolves. There was also the decision that would have to be made as to what to do with the information on this magic if they succeeded.

Cullen sighed, catching sight of the small cross drawn not far from the Venatori marker. “You told me briefly about what happened on your mission in your report. How many did you kill? What were our casualties?”

“It was supposed to be simple.” Rylen grimaced. “There were only ten of them, and fifteen of us. I made sure everyone was decently skilled and knew what they were doing, plus I bought some other Templars to help in case of mages. Only…” He picked up one of the spare markers placed on the side, rolling it between his fingers. He looked… guilty. The Knight-Captain had probably been seeing blood on his hands ever since that retreat. Self-castigation truly ran deep in Templar conduct.

“Only there were a hell of a lot more mages where they weren’t supposed to be. As the most skilled, I had to deal with one of the warriors or he was going to take out a good chunk of my men, which he nearly did, regardless. And then that mage pulled that stunt. I managed to get a smite off to stun the bastard and called the retreat. There were four of us left – two rogues, another soldier and myself.” He opened and closed his mouth like he had trouble getting the rest out.

“We, uh, had to leave our men there. The Vints didn’t try to follow us. Went to lick their wounds like we did, I suppose.”

Maker, at least _some_ of the Inquisition survived then. Cullen pulled out one of the chairs from under the table and slumped on it. Relief settled into his aching muscles immediately, easing the tension that had been suspended in the sinew for so long. They would need to attack sooner rather than later, lest the enemy find out more about this ability to manipulate time and adequately prepare. Without any idea on the capacity of their supplies, starving them out was almost a non-option.

He had bought twenty-three Templars with him, as well as a good amount of warriors, archers, rogues, and a few mages. Not to mention the forces that would be following him from the Keep. Treveylan had succeeded in her adventures with less, and while Cullen was no Inquisitor he had hope that his training as Commander would allow them to accomplish the adjective all the same.

“We _will_ get them back,” he promised Rylen. “We’lll attack in two days time, leaving here under the cover of darkness.” Cullen had planned it as their caravan travelled westward. Before the tiredness took him completely he would spend time pouring over a map of the Approach, the Knight-Captain’s increasingly crumpled report in hand.

“That should give the soldiers some time to rest and prepare supplies before we move out. Plans can be detailed tomorrow, but I cannot see us getting any further tonight.”

Releasing a groan was tempting as Cullen raised himself out of the chair. The ache that had begun to subside flared, sending sparks to his toes, and the tiredness was beginning to strain his eyes no matter how hard he pushed at it. A cot would be most welcome, even as the sun had seemingly only just sunken below the horizon. Soon the cold would begin to set in, the sand and stone unable to hold the heat that it had soaked it through, during the day. A delightful change from the smothering humidity of the Deauvin Flats.

Rylen nodded his understanding and when asked, pointed the Commander to the row of tents that were set against the high stone side of the upper platform. They were simple things – red canvas supported by thin wooden frames, but Cullen hadn’t known luxury in a long time.

He looked out to the vast dunes as he crossed the courtyard, sand stirred up by the breeze whipping around his feet. The last tinges of burnished orange were just starting to leave the highest peaks of the canyons, making them look like lights of a far off city, glittering against the dark ground. It was mesmerizingly beautiful – and it suddenly occurred to him that Samson would _hate_ it. _Too hot,_ he’d complain, _this blasted sand is sticking everywhere_.

Cullen quickly shook the thought from his mind.

\--

Over the course of two days, Cullen learnt just how cold it could get in the desert. He fought back the chattering of his teeth as he shifted in his saddle, ready to embark on their assault. The blankets he had been given were put to good use, and even then it was still not enough in the darkest hours of the night.

It was not light yet, but the first inklings of dawn could be seen far to the east, where the sun would soon press against the sky, drowning out the high moon and the countless stars that were littered around it. It was so bright out here with them that the sun need never show itself and life could carry on. He had never seen so many. Not in Kirkwall, nor Kinloch, or even in Honnleath, where the sky was usually blotched with dirty clouds.

The soldiers were doing their final preparations behind him: readying their packs, and buckling their armour with bleary eyes. Rylen paced up and down the courtyard off to the side, calling out orders and encouraging the troops to get moving. He would not be going with them, and Cullen could see that it made the man anxious. Sling abandoned, he did not hesitate to wave around his splinted arm, even though it must surely be causing the Knight-Captain pain. Cullen chuckled – Rylen was a stubborn bastard.

An elven rogue approached his mare, giving the horse’s head a wide berth as she sidled up to him, dressed from neck to boot in dark clothing. She was one of the few survivors of their last foray with the Venatori. Cullen had been cautious to accept her offer to join them in the attack when she had volunteered herself, but she did make a fine case when she pointed out that she could recognise the face of the mage that slowed time.

“Venna,” he nodded his greeting, gently pulling at the reins when his mare shuffled nervously.

Her eyes were sharp, glowing slightly in the dim light, but she returned a smile, offering her hand. “Good morning, Commander. I have come to let you know that the strike force are all prepared and the troops are ready to move out soon. We await your command.”

While the main force kept the bulk of the Venatori preoccupied, Cullen had chosen several of the Templars as well as a few good fighters to accompany him in a party that would press on ahead of the Inquisition troops to enter the Still Ruins and face those within. They still had no idea as to what to expect inside, and the Commander didn’t want to lay siege to the unexpected. Therefore a small number of them would enter and then once the fighting was done outside, those surviving soldiers would storm the ruins to lay waste.

He thanked Venna, and spurred his horse into a trot to take his place at the head of the troops. Templars and soldiers already awaited him there, sitting in their saddles patiently, or fiddling with the packs strapped to the sides.

At his call, the soldiers gathered into their lines, and together as one, the Inquisition ventured out into the stirring purple sands.

Though Cullen was at the head, they moved at Venna’s direction through the dunes and down into the dusky canyons. She showed herself to have a sharp memory which the Commander was grateful for. He hadn’t the want nor the time to pull out maps and stumble over directions.

It grew colder the further they descended, even with the growing light. Pulling his hood tighter against his neck, Cullen poorly attempted to ward off the chill. The dawn breeze that swept through the rocks and brushed against his lips was like a ghostly reminiscence of an increasingly familiar pair that had taken to haunting him in the night. He pressed the fabric against his mouth to try and wipe the feeling away.

Venna tapped him on the leg as they crested a ridge and drew close to the site of their previous battle. It was silent now, as the first rays of light warmed the threadbare trees rooted between tuffs of grass. Tent frames erupted from the ground where they had been smashed and smothered. There was evidence of the canvas here and there, flapping slightly in the wind, but Cullen was more concerned at what lay beyond them.

Bodies. Eleven of them.

They had been left to rot in the open like felled beasts, their hanging, blackened jaws gaping at the sky. Cullen hissed between his teeth. The Venatori had taken their own, but left their enemy to be picked at by scavengers. For weeks they had sat under the sun, until all that remained was armour and bone glued with bits of decrepit flesh that not even the vultures had wanted.

_No time to help them now, we have to keep on._

The thought made Cullen lock his jaw, but he pushed his horse onward nonetheless.

Just as predicted, the bulk of the Venatori force was camped outside ruins. A fair number of tents had been set up in sectioned rows, and a few inhabitants milled about them, performing their morning rituals. There was a lot of them, but there were far more of the Inquisition. If it all went according to plan, the higher rankings would retreat into the ruins, which, looking at it now, was pretty much a broken fortress really, and where Cullen and his strike force could deal with them.

He led his men so that they flanked them off to the side, unseen behind a rocky outcrop. There they separated into their teams, the lieutenant that was to lead the charge giving Cullen a sharp salute. Those that had horses dismounted and tied the reins amidst the stones that jutted from the outcrop’s face. Cullen gave his mare a soothing pat as she nickered anxiously, sensing the tension of the soldiers surrounding her.

He moved off to his party, waiting as the moments softly bled by.

When the full glory of the sun mounted the ridges to the east, all broke from their uneasy quiet. The lieutenant, a severe man, raised his fingers to his lips, letting loose a low whistle. Those archers that had set themselves on top of the outcrop quickly lunged the rest of the way up, nocking their arrows and letting them loose on the unsuspecting enemy camp below.

The reaction was immediate.

Calls of alarm sounded in Tevene. And although Cullen couldn’t understand most of what was said, he’d been around Dorian enough to recognise the whip-like cuss of ‘ _kaffas!_ ’ when it was released with a snarl.

The Inquisition soldiers responded in turn with a roar, noisily unsheathing their blades, and at their superior’s direction, they poured forth from the right side of the outcrop and down the short distance to the enemy below. Not a moment later the ring of clashing swords could be heard through the whistling of another set of arrows released upon the enemy. Cullen hoped they hadn’t caught any of their own men when they fired.

With the others gone, all that remained was their small party. They unstrapped their weapons, readying themselves to slip down the other side and sneak through the chaos.

“Let’s be off,” Cullen beckoned, dipping through the opening on the rock face’s left side and winding through the maze of boulders that had tumbled down on the other end. The steady incline they were on allowed him to see the fighting as they pressed forward. The brash shouting had become louder now, as more men from either side joined the fray, each screaming their loyalties as they attempted to cut each other down.

One question remained though: how were they going to get in?

A small body of water surrounded each side of the entrance, meaning they would have to pass through it to slip around the side and go knocking on the front door. That meant they were going to be in full view of the enemy for a moment before they slipped inside. It was not exactly ideal, as Cullen wanted as little focus on them as possible, but Maker’s breath… if that was the only option.

He paused for a moment more, searching for any weakness in the structure of the ruins that they could possibly exploit. The high stone wall warded off any who would think to make over the top of it, but as the Commander trailed his eyes down the side he spotted something that made his lips pull into small grin.

There, where the wall joined with the natural reddish rock, was a visible opening in the brickwork.

A couple of the stones had fallen in and a few others looked like they could be easily pushed out of the way, making the hole large enough for a fully grown man to fit through, armour and all. Nevertheless they would have to be careful. It wouldn’t do to have part of the wall collapse on them.

He swung around to face the others waiting patiently behind him. “I have an idea.”

\--

They had slipped through without incident, thankfully. The one archer that had spotted them from the upper balcony was swiftly taken care of by their own, allowing them to make haste for the smaller opening set beside the colossal doors of the ruin.

What they found inside made Cullen’s jaw drop a fraction in awe.

The time manipulation that Rylen described was on full display within the high vaulted ruins. What Cullen initially thought to be a fortress, inside was more like a deteriorated _palace_. The walls were decorated with shredded tapestries that lifted off the stonework in a still wind, forever suspended in motion.

Expensive looking vases hung shattered in the air, and when one of the Templars passed through it, the sherds parted as if they were being pushed across a flat surface; heavy enough that the force took them no further than however far the plates of armour needed to be no longer obstructed.

The main hall held no enemies save for those stopped in time, displayed like a centre piece at a lord’s ball. They fought demons in static, swords extended towards claws in a battle never to be completed. Above them hung a great ball, glittering like some kind of corrupted sun.

What were _demons_ doing here? Cullen knew he shouldn’t be surprised, magic and demons went hand in hand. Yet the attire that the suspended Venatori wore looked different – primarily the laced robes and sandals. The fighters wore helmets that obscured only half their faces, intricately decorated with images of dragons and stars. Fine gold earpieces both hung from the lobes and curled around the top, again with the dragon motif; their eyes little red rubies.

How long had they been here? He wondered. Could anyone really misplace a palace for a millennium? In a place like this, part of him wondered how much was truly lost.

Banging up ahead pulled him from his thoughts, and he squeezed the hilt of his sword. Right. This was no time to be idle.

In the next room they weren’t so lucky.

As they tried to breach the doorway, they were immediately set upon but both arrows and balls of frost from several Venatori firing behind overturned desks and collapsed statues. Not as subtle as first thought then. They must have been seen slipping into the entrance hall.

“ _Back!_ ” Cullen shouted, raising his shield against a fireball that broke and sprayed over the metal. He could feel the sting of heat as it rolled around the sides, singeing the elbows of his tunic. He pressed against the wall next to the doorway, watching his companions do the same with wary faces.

In the fraction of a moment when the enemy had quietened their fire, their bowman nocked an arrow and swung around the doorframe in a dance, releasing the shaft with a _twang_ before he twirled and settled beside Cullen, giving the Commander a toothy grin. Judging by the wet gurgle that sounded from beyond, the arrow had hit home.

A Templar on the other side of him laughed loudly, shifting the shield in her grip. “This is going to be _fun_.”

 “Oh, I wouldn’t say that quite yet,” came the melodic tone of the Dalish mage. However reprimanding her words, her cheeky smile voided the effect.

Maker, what had he got himself into?

The death of one of their comrades seemed to shock the Venatori into silence long enough for the Inquisition to pour from their hiding spot.

The female Templar who had spoken charged ahead, sending out a purge with a roar of blue light. Others followed her eagerly, slashing their swords and using their own powers as needed. As Cullen dodge at stab to his gullet, he suddenly felt a yearning for the abilities he had lost not long after he had stopped popping the cap of another philtre. Lyrium was the source of a Templar’s power after all, and seeing it used, but being unable to do the same left him feeling… _inadequate._

How many hours, how many days, or _weeks_ had he spent honing his abilities? Meditating on the song that thrummed through his veins? Now, it all felt for nothing. He didn’t regret releasing himself (or _trying_ to release himself, a soft throb in his head reminded him) from the silver and blue shackles that bound him. Still, the price of it continued to mount as time went on.

A well placed slash to the throat, had Cullen’s enemy on his knees, and then a forceful boot to the chest left him dead as he hit the ground. His team worked well as they clashed – those he picked up at Griffon Wing must of had fought together previously, the evidence in the way they effortlessly dance around each other, picking up slack where it was to be found. His own Templars that he had bought from Skyhold held their own just as well. No one dead, from what Cullen could see, but one of the younger ones had a hand clutching his bloodied side while he fought off a mage with the other.

The Commander hefted his own blade, ready to help but Venna beat him to it, tsking as her dagger plunged into the back of the mage’s head.  

Onward they pressed, fighting the Venatori through each parlour and hall they passed through. They lost two of their own along the way when the enemy attempted to push back, but it was without success. The further the Inquisition invaded the ruins, the more the Tevinter supremacists had taken to retreating deeper into the winding halls. Something that did not still well with Cullen.

They found boxes along the side passages as they passed them. Stack almost the ceiling were thick wooden cases with a foreign script dashed over the side. _Their supplies_. Maker, there was enough there to last them ayear or _more._ Whatever they were doing in here, the Venatori had prepared for the long haul.

“Stop,” Cullen ordered once they had come to a passage that widened into a decorated corridor. This was unlike the previous ones they had moved from. Large banners and horned statues stood timelessly against the masonry. Each glittering in the light that speared through the caved in roof, whose tiles hung where they had sought to fall. The grates above the double doors at the end suggested that this corridor lead not to another room, but an outdoor courtyard, and where Cullen was willing to bet all the meagre coin he had that the remainder of the Venatori awaited them there.

“This is the final push,” he declared, looking at each of them in turn. Every face was hardened, and willing, even though they had witnessed the deaths of their fellow soldiers. Pride pooled underneath the Commander’s ribs, fresh and warming. The doubt that had settled on his shoulders as they travelled and fought eased its weight, though it did not disappear. Some was healthy; overconfidence could ruin them. Cullen had learnt that lesson a time too many.

“We stay close, I would not have them pick us off one by one. We don’t know how many are out there, but if we hold, then we will be able to manage whatever they throw at us. Understood?”

A chorus of ‘aye,’ and ‘yes Commander,’ sounded from the party, and Cullen nodded, satisfied. Venna sidled up to him, turning her daggers in her palms.

“The mage at the other camp ought to be out there, Commander. I would stay by your side to help defeat him,” she rasped, her features taut.

“I would be glad for your assistance,” Cullen admitted. Without his Templar abilities, he was unsure that he could defeat such a powerful mage. If he even ever had the ability at all. The thought allowed the slow burn of regret make itself home in his skin once again.

They braced against the doors, weapons at the ready. It was silent, but there was a tension, an electrical current that spanned the space between the Inquisition and Venatori. Cullen could feel the crackle. He lowered his hand, palm parallel to the ground and with a great heave they pushed against the doors, the grinding of ancient hinges revealing them to those beyond.

Sand had long since blown in over the high walls, making itself at home among the carved staircases and stone palisades that encased waifish greenery. High columns that had once supported the overhang of the palace’s roof had collapsed, falling haphazardly throughout the courtyard. Their original purpose had crumbled along with the tiles that lay shattered on the ground, but the enemy proved they still had value as means of cover. Something they put to good use.

“ _There_ ,” Venna breathed beside him. And in the middle of the courtyard amongst the warriors and mages, their weapons raised, stood an older man layered in bright red robes. He only allowed them a second’s reprieve, enough for his and the Commander’s eyes to meet before he gave a booming shout, thrusting his bladed staff into the air.

“Templars!” Cullen shouted in turn, raising his shield against the attack. “Do _not_ let him use his power. If you feel yourself becoming trapped, purge the spell immediately, and also do so for those that cannot.”

He inhaled sharply, drawing his focus to a needlepoint. “Now!”

The Templars moved ahead, charging down the stairs in arrow head formation, their shields held high. Cullen and those that lacked their dispelling power quickly backed their rear, and tightening the flanks so that a Venatori assassin could not use the unguarded position to their advantage.

Those that had no need for close combat began their assault immediately from the vantage of the higher platform; firing arrows and blasts of electricity onto the enemy below.

The Venatori warriors met the Templars with a clash, trying to draw the Inquisition away from the mages that had retreated back further up the set of stairs leading to another wing of the palace. Seeing this, Cullen pushed forward as the line straightened out, forcing himself to the front and near enough to the enemy to thrust his sword out, grazing the arm of a warrior in mid swing. The quicker they took out the more dangerous, heavyset enemies, or at the very least – distracted them, then it would leave the mages with little defence.

The graze drew the man’s attention, and he swung again, this time catching the eye of Cullen’s shield. The force of the rebound made the Commander grit his teeth, but it had the other man loose his footing, stumbling back.

Venna suddenly materialised beside him, swiping her daggers across the back of the man’s exposed knees. He dropped like a sack of vegetables, hanging his head and giving the elven woman another opening to slice her blade across the nape of his neck, severing the spinal cord.

“Commander, let us make for the leader, we should not risk him retreating further,” she insisted, beckoning him with the point of her chin. Cullen nodded and pushed forward from the protective wall of shields, making for open ground. There was risk in it, but a worthy one.

Two Templars and a soldier broke off behind him, but not before tapping those either side to tighten the ranks.

A young mage that strayed too close in a false sense of confidence quickly met his end when he felt the force of a fully-fledged smite that threw him off his feet. Cullen’s blade quickly descended – stabbing through his sternum and into his heart, drenching the tip of his sword in gore. The other Venatori mages scattered, making for the pillars and edges of the banisters, far removed from the little group heading for the older man still standing tall, almost welcoming in his stance. From the corner of his eye, Cullen could see that the mages had drew the attention of a few more Inquisition men, and they broke off to engage, weapons at the ready.

The grey faced man didn’t hesitate in his attack as soon as they came close. A fireball split the group down the middle and Cullen lunged to the side, pulling the Inquisition soldier with him. There was no time for thanks from the dark haired man as another was sent their way trying to push them back down the stairs.

One of the Templars summoned forth a smite, but the mage took it in stride with only minor affect, apparently learning from his encounter with Rylen. A barrier met the lyrium burst, cleaving it instead of the man behind. _Shit._

The Templars, somewhat deterred, moved to regroup, and Cullen pushed forward, Venna and the soldier at his side. The elven woman disappeared in a haze, quickly reappearing behind the Venatori, only to have her feet encased in ice. _Ice traps._ The Commander swore under his breath, taking note of where to put his boots as he moved.

He got close, close enough to swing his sword, but as it descended, the mage streaked back in a rush of light, and Cullen’s blade cut only air. The weight behind his blow very nearly threw him off balance, but he recovered, swinging bodily around to search for the older man.

He stood backed against a large set of doors, his staff floating as if displaced in water. More worryingly, he had begun making intricate motions with his hands and gathering liquid light around his fingers, his lips moving in a soundless chant.

“Stop him!” Cullen heard himself shout, a pounding tempo mounting in his head at the rhythmic flow of magic. Whatever it was that the mage was doing it could not be good.

Before any of them had a chance to react, the final piece slid into place, and the ball released from the man’s hands in a rupture of light, spreading outwards in languorous waves. The sand rustled by the wind slowed, and Cullen in turn felt his limbs grow sluggish, as though weighed down with stones.

He tried to open his mouth, to shout to the Templars to dispel it, but his jaw wouldn’t open and his tongue stuck heavy in his mouth. The soldier stared wide-eyed across from him, caught mid-lunge. He could not scream when the mage fade-stepped in front of him, nor could he make any noise when the bladed staff was swung up, cleaving his face in two, from jaw to brow.

_He’s going to kill me next_ , Cullen realised as he watched the blood spray out in a rush then suddenly stop as it hit the air. _Maker have mercy._

He thanked Andraste when his fears where never fulfilled.

A beam of silver-blue light cut through the magic holding the very air captive, and releasing Cullen from his prison. It struck the mage in the side, pushing him back with a growl. He shook the purge off in a subtle rage, his face a dark cloud. The next chant he weaved was spat, tugging at the lines of his face. The magic he pulled forth was visceral, and far more solid than the soft layers of threaded time. The male Templar swept over to his Commander, sword raised, though panting heavily through his helmet at the power he had just released. Neither he nor his female counterpart looked prepared enough to stop the incoming spell after such a short amount of time. Cullen squared his shoulders and raised his shield to the onslaught.

Sound stopped for a moment, as if it had been sucked into a pinhole. When it was released, it was released with such a magnitude of energy that the force of the blast swept Cullen and the Templar off their feet sending them careening back across the sandy tiles.

Cullen felt the breath leave him with a _whoosh_ as his back collided with the ground, rolling as the momentum continued to carry him forward. The scrape of his armour was like a chatter of birds in his ear as he slid across the ground before coming to a jarring halt. A dizziness, settled like a blanket, smothering as he tried to shake it off. Yet it persisted, and with the ringing in his ears the courtyard and fighters within became double.

He needed to get up, he needed to—

The Commander groaned as a wave nausea washed over him as he tried to quickly stand. It was like he had drunk far too many pints of ale and was only just starting to feel the effects in his limbs. Cullen sunk to his knees, almost losing his sword as wobbly as was his grip on the hilt. Another shake of his head had the fuzziness in his vision clearing a little but it wasn’t enough. There was a slip of something warm running down the back of his neck, sliding under the brim of his cuirass. Cullen dropped his shield for a moment to grab at it: his fingers came back bloodied.

_Shit._ That’s what he got for not wearing a helmet. Although, looking through hazy eyes to the Templar that lay crumpled off to the side, the man that did, had not fared much better.

_Come on, Rutherford,_ came a voice as gritty as the stone and sand beneath his knees. _Get up. That can’t be all you have. Pick up your fucking shield, and kill the bastard._

Cullen did as ordered, guiltily taking some strength from the voice before he pushed it away. The more steps he took, the further the dizziness retreated until it only pressed at the edges of his mind.

Venna and the Templar woman looked to be having difficulty as he steadily drew closer. The mage wasn’t fast on his feet, but his barriers were certainly quick enough to push them both back. He tried a few more times to gather that ball of light in his hands, but the Templar, though drained, forced her purge out to rend the power from his hands. Cullen could see it grow weaker every time she had to pull again and again from the depleted lyrium. A time or two more and she would not have enough energy in her bones to fight him.

If he could just do _something_ to throw the man off. He couldn’t ask the Templar to throw a smite, she needed to be focused on her dispels. A quick look around told him that all their other fighters were in the midst of their own battles. Cullen would have to think of something.

Maybe… Perhaps if…

He drew himself inward, fighting off the stringent prickles of haziness. Focus. _Focus._ He sunk deep, touching the strings of sinew that had once thrummed with blue light in abandon. Now though, on the surface they were silent, the song picked clean. But if he could _push_ , dig his claws into the catlines of the cords and listen hard – there thrumming a low croon was the last notes of a dying song.

Cullen grasped it, coaxing it out. The song responded languidly, but it came nonetheless as weak as a withered man. Soft wisps of blue smoked from his fingers as he sheathed his sword and stalked forward to where Venna and the mage still twirled in a dance. It wouldn’t do much, but if he could just…

He released it forward with as much might as the tiny wisps of lyrium would allow, feeling the push of his own natural energy behind it. A frail beam of light whipped the Tevinter man, simply making him stumble, but Maker, it was enough. Venna quickly used the opening to thrust her dagger into his thigh, ripping a shout from the man’s throat.

Cullen, taking up his blade once again, covered the distance in a heartbeat.

He charged, smashing the heart of his shield into the mage’s face, wrenching his head back with a _crunch._

The older man was forced to the ground, staff flying from his grip to clatter down the staircase. At the call of his name, Cullen turned to see another Templar wreathed in blue light and smite on his lips. _They had him now._ The force of the ability evaporated the magic from the very air, almost making the Tevinter seizure under the blast as his mana was torn from him. His eyes bulged and he choked and wheezed like a fish out of water.

A sweet sense of satisfaction settled on Cullen’s shoulders at the sight of the old mage on the ground; drained and pliant. He would answer for what had happened, even if Cullen had to force it out of the man.

 “Kill me,” he coughed as the Commander hauled him to his feet, the strained words barely decipherable in his heavy Tevene accent. Sweat pebbled heavily on the man’s brow.

“No, not yet,” Cullen spoke, baring his blade. They still had use for him, after all.

The sounds of battle had started to quieten, with the Inquisition victorious. Though blood from both parties slicked the tile, there were far more bodies belonging to the enemy. The survivors downed the last of their foes, and made their way over to where their little party had cornered the remaining member.

A sudden, swift movement from the Tevinter leader made him whip his head back around, but it was too late.

He gripped the blade of Cullen’s sword, startling him. The edges bit into his bare hands but the mage didn’t seem to notice nor care as blood began to run freely through his fingers and slip down his arms to stain the red robes with a living hue. Cullen attempted to pull the sword away but the Venatori persisted with a surprising strength, descending their struggle into a bloody tug-of-war.

What was he _doing?_ Maker what was—

With a yell the mage _hauled_ the blade to himself, taking Cullen with it. The deadly point, enhanced by the press of weight behind it pierced through the delicate softness of his belly, skewering the man with iron.

“ _No_! _”_ Cullen bellowed, gripping the man’s shoulder so he couldn’t wrench free and spill his innards. Regardless, it was of little use. Blood already foamed between the mage’s teeth, dripping down his chin to matte in his beard.

He dropped to his knees, allowing the blade to slice upwards into his diaphragm. With little resistance, Cullen yanked his sword out the Venatori’s gut, the hands that held it loosely slipping from the metal as the man became weaker with every pained gasp.

The Commander cursed low in his throat. If the mage died, there could be no way of knowing how to rectify time in this place. He had to know, had to try to find how to stop this. The wound was deep all the same, the man would most certainly die. Still, this was the only source of answers, and by the Void _he would have it_ , even if the Tevinter refused to be taken alive.

“Tell me where!” He hissed, shaking the dying man by his lapel. “Where is the cause of this?” The older man didn’t answer, but a quick, nervous glance to the far end of the courtyard told Cullen everything he needed to know. The unassuming door sitting there was small but thickly solid. It would be a hard thing to break through, even as ancient as it was.

Cullen dug a hand through the mage’s pockets, searching for anything cold and metal. It did not take long before he soon found his prize – a key mirroring the thickness of the door. He plucked it out as the last choked wheezes left the man and he abruptly slumped forward into Cullen’s side, cooling in the hot sun.

“Let’s go,” the Commander sighed pushing the body away, and turning to those Inquisition fighters that remained. He let the man drop, picking up his sword and sheathing it before hefting and securing his shield to his back. A few of the others breathed similar sighs, as much relief and exhaustion as his was.

“So,” the bowman chirped, shouldering his quiver. “Anyone up for a drink after this?”

\--

The curtains fluttered in the breeze that was welcomed by the large grated shutters pushed out to open upon the courtyard below. If he listened hard, Cullen could hear the faint chirp of those crickets that hadn’t yet fell victim to the sewer rats which usually slipped into the Templar compound from the east docks. The air was muggy, almost suffocating in the way it stuck to the lungs, but the Ferelden man had become used to the heat in the years that had passed since his arrival. The Gallows were far enough from the centre of Kirkwall that the city sounds barely reached their island in the harbour.

It was peaceful, quiet.

Yet it was also troubled.

A man sat on the edge of the cot closest to the open window, his bare and bowed back facing Cullen from where he lay atop the sheets of his own mattress. The moonlight was bright tonight, bright enough to cast the man in silver edges; catching on the tips of his hair and the fine lines of his shoulders. Cullen couldn’t see his face, but he knew the Templar was staring at his open palms, inspecting them in the light that flooded in behind the breeze. He had been sitting that way for a while.

“Sam,” Cullen called softly, kicking off the sheet that had twisted about his ankles and padding over to where the other man sat. The bed dipped at his weight, but Samson didn’t stir, utterly entranced by his own hands. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with them as Cullen glanced over the man’s shoulder. They were calloused but clean; a few scars ran shallowly across the meat of his palms, but the nails were trim and neat. Nevertheless, he stared, searching for something.

Cullen pressed his lips to a muscled shoulder and smoothed his hand around the curve of Samson’s hip, drawing him back from wherever he had fled to. The man jolted minutely at the blond’s touch, but quickly relaxed, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

“You should be sleeping,” he murmured, his Marcher accent thick.

Cullen snorted lightly, scratching a nail over the waistband of Samson’s cotton breeches. “As should you,” he rebutted. He would have woken sooner if their cots had been pushed together as they usually were, but lately the nights had gotten so hot that distance had been mutually agreed and appreciated. “Why aren’t you?”

Samson didn’t answer straight away, instead taking the time to drop his hands into his lap and watch the beams of moonlight pool on the stacked pieces of plate armour gathered to the side. The man’s shield sat in front of it all like a trophy on display. It had begun to wear at the edges – too many chips in the metal even if the dents had been beaten out and the cuts buffed down. Regardless of all that, the sunburst still shone brightly in the centre, gold turned white in the dark.

“It’s nothing,” Samson said, shaking the hair out of his eyes.

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

“…If you’re sure.”

“ _Cullen._ ” The older man chuckled, twisting his neck to look at him from over his shoulder. Samson was smiling, but his tinny green eyes were tired and pricked with a hint of worry. Something _was_ bothering him. Samson was just being as stubborn as a mule, something not out of the ordinary. He wanted to brush that worry away and feel it turn to dust under his fingers.

“Alright,” Cullen conceded. “Sleep at least then, if you will not tell me.” He would get it out of the other man eventually. A hand around the wrist of the arm slung about Samson’s hip stopped him as he tried to move away. He gave a questioning noise when the other Templar turned in his seat and gently pressed Cullen into the mattress.

“As we’re both awake…” there was a flash of teeth as the man clambered on top of his partner to press light kisses down his neck. He wandered aimlessly along the collarbone, across his shoulders and south to the nipple that quickly budded under his tongue. Cullen let him roam, enjoying the weight of the man resting on his hips and the way his heart beat faster in its cage as soft lips were pressed to the skin above.

“Making up for lost time?” Cullen hummed. He couldn’t quite remember the exact reason they had not taken a moment for themselves that evening, but Meredith’s face appeared briefly in his mind.

“Never too much of a good thing,” was the muffled reply, and Cullen chortled.

They went slowly, languid in every thrust of their hips and brush of their fingers. The noises they made were free, open and as loud as they wished. The ability to do so without hindrance was intoxicating, after so long of locked jaws and moans muffled by a fist at his teeth. Cullen faintly wondered when and why they had stopped trying to be quiet, but the thought was quickly chased away by Samson’s touches.

Though they had taken their time, the sex felt far too quick to Cullen’s mind. He wanted more, even as Samson shuffled away, naked as the day he was born, to wet a cloth for wiping the slick from their bellies. The light caught the powerful muscles in his legs as he moved and Cullen felt his cock twitch in interest again at the sight. He would never tire of seeing that man’s body, nor of feeling it against him. He had explored every inch of skin and still he felt there was more to be found.

He propped himself up on his elbows to watch Samson lean over the basin to begin his ritual. The man flicked water over his face first, pushing back his sweat damp fringe with a wet hand before gathering more to press under his arms and across the light dusting of hair that covered his chest. It was so hot, that Cullen was tempted to get up and do the same. The bed dipped as the man settled again, wiping himself down. He turned to Cullen to do the same, but the blond took it from his hands, giving a few quick sweeps before dropping it onto the tile.

The mattress was small enough that even with Samson seated on the side – a mirror to how this night began – that Cullen had to curl around his frame, tucking his knees into the other side of the man’s hips. The other Templar allowed himself to lean back slightly, supported by the body behind him. It felt so comfortable, so natural to run the tips of his fingers down Samson’s spine, dipping into the raised knobs to feel each vertebrae form into the next.

The man was staring at his hands again as if the past two hours had never happened; like they held a secret Cullen was not privy to.

“Are you happy here?” Samson questioned, almost inaudibly. “In Kirkwall? In the Gallows? With me?” That worry, that tiredness, was back in the strain of his voice. Is _this_ what had kept him awake?

His question took Cullen by surprise, but there was no hesitation in his answer. “There is no place I’d rather be.”

And there wasn’t, that was the truth. After so much suffering, he had found his place here in Kirkwall, with Samson. Whatever trepidation or confusion he had felt at being with a man had long since washed away, if it had ever truly been there to begin with.

_Truly_ , it wouldn’t be so bad to lay here in this place, forever.

Samson gave a little choked laugh at that, and shook his head, shoulders sagging in on themselves as far as they would go. “I’m sorry, Cullen.”

The utter defeat lacing the words had Cullen quickly uncurling from around the other man, his own worry starting to gnaw at his gut. Why was he apologising? What did he do?

“What for?”

Samson showed him his hands, and Cullen’s stomach lurched.

Tiny red crystals had split the surface of his palms, peeling back the skin from where they erupted from within. They glowed, threaded with orange, like a light being shone through spun glass. Even before Cullen’s eyes more grew, a disease of scarlet. The clear, pale skin of Samson’s hands could no longer be seen, for everywhere there was not crystal, blood ran in rivets, dripping down his arms and onto his thighs. The sudden amount of it was immense, far too much for such tiny wounds. Soon the sheets were as stained as his hands and the grit of the tiles below them ran red.

Cullen tried to cry out but something was gripping his throat, making it impossible to breathe, let alone speak. He clutched at it, trying to rip away the invisible hands but still they squeezed, headless of his struggle. He reached a shaky hand toward Samson, silently pleaded for help, but as the light hit his fingers, he saw that his own hand, though free of diseased shards, was as red and bloody as those of the man next to him.

Maker _, what was_ —

Cullen awoke with a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this took a while, as you can see, it's a bit of a monster chapter at over 9k words. Whoops.
> 
> I suppose I should also start putting this here
> 
> http://theon-stark.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

Samson watched the drips slide over the stone in the dull light. They still echoed, but he had long since come to terms with the fact it would just be part of his life, or what was left of it. It was a cruel fate, in retrospect. Though he probably didn’t deserve any less. He should have known that the Inquisitor could be a ruthless bitch, at least other prisons had other _prisoners._ This was all the dank little hole that Trevelyan had promised. Even Cullen had wizened up, and abandoned him here. That, however, stung far more than Samson cared to admit.

Fuck. _Fuck._ Even thinking of the man made him want to groan and push his fingers so far into his eyes that the nails scratched his brain. The man’s last visit had been weeks ago now, and still it made him feel like he had taken a plated boot to the stomach.

What a blighted mess… and an utter surprise.

_Cullen_ had been the one to kiss him. Cullen, the same man who hadn’t been shy in his hatred. The same man who had been all too pleased at Samson’s sentence. Through the Commanders visits it had been obvious that he no longer felt that way, but when did mere toleration transform into something that would have him reaching through the bars of his former enemy’s cell to kiss him? A passionate one, filled with force and fire, to boot. Samson had never known Cullen to be a man of impulse; he could become emotional, for sure, but not even in Kirkwall, when the fear and hatred ran deep, did he take his blade to an apprentice on a whim. Yet Cullen had seemed terrified afterward, as if he hadn’t known what had come over him.

Samson puffed out a breath. He’d never been good at this sort of thing, and from the state of things, Cullen was just as hopeless. He had never had to stop and look too hard at the things he felt, at least on the surface. He liked what he liked. There had never been a need or want to wax poetic, not even now. It had been a good thing that Cullen had reached through the bars, because Samson was not far off from doing it himself. The expected outcome would have been a broken nose, but his situation could hardly worsen. He wanted Cullen. More than want, rather, but that was the base of it. Going and searching deeper was the only thing that caused problems, a precipice that Samson unnervingly stood on the edge of. Cullen, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have such a live and let live relationship with that part of himself. Maker, he had only talked of desiring women, the fact that he evidently felt something for Samson (a thought that still left an odd taste in his mouth), had probably made the man shit his breeches.  The former General chuckled to himself, even as he rubbed at the crease in his brow.

_Not that any of this matters_ , he thought, once again feeling a little dour. _He legged it, and hasn’t come back._ In the passing weeks Samson had resigned himself to the fact that Cullen wouldn’t. He had tried once to ask the Gaoler when the woman brought food, but she was eternally silent in his presence. _Piss on it._

Clanking boots drew him from his thoughts, and he tilted an ear toward the sound. It was a soldier, more than one in fact. Samson climbed to his feet, and stepped over his damp bedroll to look through the bars. Two stoic faced Inquisition guards trudged to his cell, their footfalls heavy on the boardwalk.

When they stopped before him, he cocked a brow, trailing his eyes over the cloth and plate before grunting his curiosity. “What’s all this then?”

The man with the key was the one to answer him with a hint of disdain. “You have been summoned by Sister Nightingale to speak with her in the courtyard. We are to escort you.” A dull voice to match a dull face.

“Aye, and what does the Sister want with me?” Information, Samson supposed. Though by now he had given everything he could think of. The Venatori activity in the west was the last thing that came to mind. Nevertheless, asking couldn’t hurt.

The guard shook his head. “You’ll find out, soon enough, Prisoner. Stand away from the door,” he replied, threading the key through the lock when the dark haired man complied with a _hmpf._

He had forgotten how bright the sunlight could be, especially in the mountains. He’d been down in the dank cells so long that the only sunlight he had known was the shaded kind that breached the cave mouth of the waterfall. Sparring soldiers stopped their practise to watch the guards escort Samson through the training yard. Most looked on with disgust, but a few of them – the younger ones – gazed at him with fear. Samson snorted. _Let them look. They can’t do much else._

Sister Nightingale was waiting for him, seated in a sunbeam before a table set with a chessboard. She extended a hand to the chair on the other side when she saw him, yet all graciousness was lost when one of the guards simply shoved him into the seat. This was what she wanted? To play chess with him? A voice whispered in his mind almost instantly, urging him to be on guard. He may have been many things, but he wasn’t an idiot. Samson knew of Nightingale and what the Inquisition’s Spymaster was capable of. The number of times the woman had outmanoeuvred his own forces had pissed him off on more than one occasion. Even now in her presence, he felt himself grind his teeth. Inquisition or not, she was still Chantry, and a former hand of the Divine. That fact alone made her grate on him more than any potential danger she posed. _Although, I suppose there’s not much point in looking out for danger nowadays. Still, old habits die hard._

Her smile was light, secretive and knowing. How knowing exactly, Samson frustratingly couldn’t say, but was enough to make him trust the voice. He leaned back in his chair casually. It would do well to appear so, even if the woman wasn’t convinced.

“General Samson,” she started, her voice as light as her smile, “I thought we might get you out of your cell to stretch your legs a bit.”

“And here I thought that rotting in a hole for the rest of my life was my punishment.” _She wanted something, but what?_ The curve of her lips was too easy. _Did she know…?_ “What is it that you want, Nightingale?”

She didn’t answer him immediately. With a deft hand, the Sister set the board before him – her pieces white, his black. The King, the Queen, their bishops and knights and rooks, all standing tall before the lowly pawns. She took her time with those, placing them carefully, precisely. The polished marble glowed in the shifting sunbeams.

When the final piece was set – a pearly white rook – Nightingale lifted her face toward him. While her voice and smile may have been light, she did not care to guard her eyes. They were forthright. Direct and unrestrained.  “You have had a very interesting life, Samson, I must say. Tragic almost.”

He bristled under her nonchalance. “What of it?”

“From a good, noble Templar, to sorry vagrant, to a grandiose General of a would-be God, and finally to a sullen prisoner of your foe.”

_She’s trying to mock me?_ He hardly felt the attempted sting. Samson knew what he was and had been. He’d spent far too many years in the chokedamp with the past being the only thing to keep him company. Yes, he had been a good Templar. Not only good, but _great._ Knight-Commander Guylian wouldn’t attend a knighthood and give a recruit his sunshield unless that recruit outclassed every other, and he had worked damn hard for it too. Hours upon hours in the training ground under the gruelling sun. He sweat so much, pulling off his leathers at the end of the day was like peeling off a layer of skin. Maker, it was years ago now, but he could still feel the heat searing the back of his neck as he swung and swung at the flaxen dummy. Even when the stars had thrown themselves across the sky, Samson would sneak out there to lay waste to their painted heads till he heaved bare-chested and sweating; modesty forgotten till daylight. They had become well acquainted with his blunted sword by the end. More than a few had to be replaced, but his trainers never scolded Samson for it; only told him to push harder, and he had. He was seventeen. Seventeen and willing to do anything to prove himself. If only the boy had known what was in store for him as he stared up at the night sky, his limbs leaden with exhaustion.

“What of it?” He repeated. “I’m know what happened, woman. Considering I was present for all of it.”

She studied his face as though he were one of her marble pieces. “I wonder, General,” she said, bringing a finger to her lips. “How much of your tragic story could have been avoided if only you had shucked off the burden of lyrium? Cullen is doing quite well. He has headaches, true, but he is no longer chained. Through strength he has freed himself. You could have left your own chains behind with your expulsion from the Order, yet you persisted in chasing lyrium. Perhaps that speaks of your character.”

The rage came hot to his throat in a heartbeat, all notion of aloofness forgotten.

“ _Shut your trap, you self-righteous bitch_.” He hadn’t meant for the tinder to spark so quickly to flame, but the quip had more sting to it than anticipated. The point dug straight into his pride. Old wounds were still wounds. None hurt quite so much as that one.

It was becoming hard to breathe as Samson hissed the words through his teeth. “My character? You don’t know shit about my _character_.”

He heard the clicks of the hilts of swords being pulled from their sheaths. Leliana turned the hand at her mouth toward the riled guards, warding them off. With a quick word, she sent them away. It took all of Samson’s focus not to lunge across the chessboard once they had left. It would be suicide but given how he felt right now, it might just be worth it. He gripped the handles of his chair instead. His own strength and that of the leftover lyrium was enough to make impressions of his fingertips in the wood and it groaned in despair.

How easy it was for the woman to sit there and lecture him on weak wills. Unsurprising, coming from a hand of the Divine. Her pedestal was so high she could probably see the whole of fucking Thedas. What did she know about the dogs of her Chantry, other than when meagre scraps were given to them at the table while the high and mighty laughed amongst themselves and paid the ones under their feet no mind?

“How easy for you, _Sister,_ to talk about strength when yours has never been tested. Have you bled for the Chantry, or did you just make others do that?” Samson snarled.

Leliana didn’t react to his barb. Her eyes were steady; not a hint of what she was thinking coloured the pale blue. Samson paused for a reply but none came.

She was waiting for him to continue.

“You think I wanted to or liked taking lyrium? I hated the first drop I had, hated the last. But when they gave it to me, I took it. Because the Chantry told me to. Because the Order told me to. Because a soldier obeys orders. I didn’t have a choice, no matter what you think.” He shook his head to clear the memory of his first philtre. It had been like ice on his tongue.

“Templars had make sacrifices, and if addiction was one of them, then so be it, I thought. I was doing good. Protecting mages. Protecting people. I meant every single word of my oath. When the itch got bad, you’d just pop over to the store room and they’d fix you up on another dose of lyrium, no problem. Never had to worry about the possibility of having to endure it long.” Then he had. All because he tried to return a favour. A little paper bird with words of love, tucked in his pocket.

“They don’t give any special support to disgraced Templars,” Samson continued, bitterly. “Did you know that? Just threw me out on my arse into the shit and filth of the gutter. Couldn’t keep anything down soon after, the withdrawals got so bad. Not that I was eating much, anyway.” The itch in his head had turned to pounding, then ringing. His whole body had shook something fierce. Samson didn’t remember much else from that week of hell. Only vague memories of clawing at a Chantry door and an older man clapping him on the back as he heaved over a railing in the harbour. Clarity had only returned with the press of a small drawstring bag into one palm and the removal of his last silver coins from the other. The following years became a game of how long he could starve off the madness that nipped at his threadbare boots. Samson had come dangerously close to losing far too many times.

“I managed though, and even though that bitch Meredith kicked me out of the Order, I still kept my vows. Couldn’t quite see how badly her actions were ruining and taking lives until you were seeing it on the streets. Kirkwall wasn’t protecting mages, the Gallows had turned into a cage under Stannard. Kids were being made tranquil out of potential risk, not ‘cause they were doing blood magic. The Order was failing, so I helped them get out.”

Nightingale hadn’t asked him about the mages, but Samson let the words slip out anyway. He still did his duty after everything. The duty he had sworn his life to. _Wasn’t about to let Meredith stop me from doing my job. Weak-willed?_ Samson snorted. _Piss on her ‘weak-will.’_ Leliana wasn’t wrong about Cullen. But Cullen had everything Samson hadn’t when he stopped taking lyrium.

“You charged them coin to get them out of the city. That’s hardly altruistic,” Leliana countered.

He wasn’t about to ask her how she knew that. The Nightingale had her birds everywhere. “And so what if it wasn’t? I still needed to survive somehow. I still helped them. I didn’t do it out of greed, however easy it is to accuse me of it. Did what I had to.”

“Was joining Corypheus ‘ _doing what you had to’_?”

“Bugger off, woman. I don’t have to explain that reason to you. Is this what you called me here for? Fact-checking? Get to your point.”

Samson pushed one of his pawns across the board in a flash of spite. It teetered with the force of his finger but eventually rounded off on a white square. The rage still prickled and stung, nevertheless speaking had sluiced its bite. The woman across from him raised a brow at the thoughtless play of his piece.

“No, you don't have to tell me,” Leliana said, freeing her knight from behind the wall of pawns. “But you did tell the Inquisition’s Commander.”

Samson froze. _How much did she know?_

_Nightingale has her birds everywhere._

“Pretend for a second Samson, that you are me.” Her voice was light, and as irritatingly steady as her eyes. “What would you do in my position? The Commander of the Inquisition has been frequently fraternizing in secret with a high class enemy that he has history with. You can understand how that looks do you not? Certain people may become convinced that our Commander has become soft with sympathy for a traitor. One that might convince him to make bad decisions that would cause us to lose this war.”

The heat under Samson’s skin cooled instantly. _Cullen, you stupid bastard. You didn’t tell anyone about your visits?_

“Not only is he visiting a traitor regularly, a few weeks ago something happened in those cells that had him fleeing from Skyhold to the Western Approach as if an archdemon were at his heels.” She steepled her hands under her chin, mock-frowning at their game.  “His actions are erratic, seemingly unstable and utterly unbecoming of a Commander. I could chalk it up to his lyrium withdrawals, but I think we both know that’s not the reason.”

Cullen was in the Western Approach? That was reason he hadn’t seen Samson? He really _had_ legged it. The distance he'd run was almost admirable. And here Samson thought the man had just locked himself in his office. _This is worse than I thought._

Samson wet his lips and prepared to treat carefully. Otherwise, Cullen’s neck might just be on the block next to his. He had thought Leliana a friend of Cullen’s, but the woman was ruthless, unpredictable and dedicated to her job. That much the former General knew, if the bodies of his men were anything to go by. If doing her job meant removing threats close to home, she just might do it. _She’s trying to get information out of me. She knows something, but not everything._

At least he hoped not.

“What does it matter to me if Rutherford’s run off to the desert? Aye, Sister, we talked. He was angry. Wanted to know why I did some things the way I did, so I told him. We were Templars together once, so I owed him that much. Maybe he heard something he didn’t want to. I don’t bloody know. Just glad he’s left me alone.”

Leliana hummed. “So the problem solely lays with the Commander. My spies will have to keep a closer watch on him. Remove him if he continues to act irrationally.” She sighed. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Samson couldn’t stop the growl that lurched from his throat. He cut it off quickly, but the damage was done. Leliana raised her gaze slowly from the board, her head tilted in a silent question. She was playing with him; more than just chess. Calpernia had liked to play the same cat and mouse game with her lot. She’d tried her claws on him once, but he hadn’t given her the time of day. Now, this was different. Now, Samson wasn’t the mouse. Instead, he was trying to protect the mouse. Maker, he hated these games.

“There’s nothing wrong with Cullen.” Defending Cullen may very well put both their necks on the line, but dammit, he couldn’t risk Cullen’s wellbeing if the woman were to act on her suspicions. “He’s a good Commander. Has the respect of his men, and is loyal to them as they are to him. He’s… doing good. Better than I ever was.” _Lyrium and command._ “You’d throw that away? Have you even asked what’s bothering him?”

“Do you respect him, Samson?”

She threw the question over the board in attempt to blindside him. The play partly worked. Was the question loaded, or was that just his imagination? _How much did she know?_

_Bugger it._

“I do,” he replied, his gritty voice turning quiet.

Leliana hummed again, and pursed her lips; though the corners slyly upturned. In that moment, a familiar sinking feeling dropped in Samson’s gut. It reminded him of long nights at the Hanged Man, his mouth tasting of piss-water ale. The confidence, the mixture of carefulness and carelessness waned. It was same kind he received whenever the dark haired man realised he’d lost it all in a high stakes game of Wicked Grace.


End file.
